


You Say You're Sorry When You're Not

by sutsop



Series: You Say You're Sorry When You're Not [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: All The Tropes, Canon Divergence, Cullenlingus, Dorks in Love, Dragon Age: Inquisition - Trespasser DLC, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Past Lavellan/Solas, Past Relationship(s), Romance, Slow Burn, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-04
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2019-05-18 07:51:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 32
Words: 116,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14848706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sutsop/pseuds/sutsop
Summary: Defeating Corypheus feels like a hollow victory to Ellana Lavellan. But her broken heart will be mended with the help good friends, plenty of wine, and a handsome Commander.





	1. Flaws

 

"Fuck it," she said.

The Iron Bull laughed, and pounded his fists on the bar. "That's the spirit, boss!" Before she could protest, he grabbed her by the waist and hoisted her up onto his shoulder.

"Alright, who thinks they can out drink the woman who just fucking killed Corypheus?" A roar broke out across the crowd of people packed into the Herald's Rest. "Then get your ass over here and _drink_! Cabot, line' em up!"

A dozen brave souls had come to line up beside her, as the surly dwarven bartender poured out shots of something that looked harmlessly clear. Despite the fact that Cabot had started pouring down at the opposite end of the bar, she could already smell the fumes. Ellana was fairly sure it must be what Qunaris use to strip paint.

Sera shouted from halfway down the bar, "Down the hatch, Quizzy!" Apparently she'd gotten an early start, judging from the slur in her speech. Ellana picked up the tiny glass apprehensively, shrugged her shoulders, and knocked it back. A chorus of coughing and sputtering soon erupted, except for Bull, who was laughing hysterically.

Once the burn wore off, and the room righted itself again, she realized this was exactly what she needed - a drink. Or ten.

Dorian sidled up to her, wrapping his arm around her waist, "I'm very pleased to see you're taking my advice. Although I wouldn't let Bull order the drinks anymore, unless you really hate your internal organs." He managed to wave down a rather harried Cabot, and pull Ellana to a corner table along with two bottles of Tevinter red.

She honestly hadn't expected a Tevinter magister (or _altus_ , rather, as he liked to remind her) to become her best friend. But his humor, confidence, and impeccably groomed facial hair had won her over. He also had excellent taste in wine. "Well, I'm not about to elbow my way back up there for glasses, so I'm afraid we'll be drinking from the bottle tonight," he said.

Ellana grinned, and pulled out her dagger, and removed the corks with a much practiced finesse. "Cheers," she said, tapping the neck of her bottle to his. She took a long drink and swallowed, sighing deeply.

"Now, why are we sighing? What happened to "fuck it"? I like "fuck it" - it's an excellent plan. One I plan to take up myself later on, and one I think you desperately need to seize upon as well." Dorian arched an eyebrow, and gave her a scathing look. "Please, Ell, don't spend your evening thinking about that _twat_ , when there are any number of eligible men and women here who would be only too happy to help you forget him."

She gave him a feeble smile, "I'm trying."

Of course she was thinking about him, though. Solas. She'd seen him as her gentle, wise _hahren_ at first. Despite his strange disdain for Dalish traditions, he always answered Ellana's questions with patience, and perhaps a hint of amusement at first. He seemed familiar to her, and in such a strange and puzzling place as Haven, surrounded by humans, she desperately needed something that didn't feel alien. Then slowly, _hahren_ became _vhenan_. Every moment that her thoughts weren't filled with the Inquisition, with the immensity of what they were trying to accomplish, they were filled with thoughts of him. She'd loved him. She'd given herself to him completely. _So fucking naive_ , she thought 

And when he asked her to go to Crestwood, she'd been totally blindsided. His confession to her of the truth of her _vallaslin_ \- what she thought was her rite of passage, her connection to her history and heritage. He'd told her that was all a lie, that they weren't ritual tattoos, they were actually slave markings. She'd believed him, of course. And when he asked to remove them, she'd said yes. Of course. Because she saw the pain in his eyes, because she only wanted him to look at her love.

_And then he fucking dumped me._

So she held it together, embraced the numbness that clouded her mind and body, and kept her head down. Weeks later, they'd marched off to the Valley of Sacred Ashes to fight Corypheus. By some miracle, they had won. And they all survived. Except that when the dust settled, Solas was nowhere to be found. She spent the three days it had taken to march back to Skyhold in silence during the day, in tears at night.

She knew Leliana's spies were scouring Fereldan, Orlais, and beyond, looking for Solas. She'd like to think it was solely on her behalf, but she knew that would be a lie. Despite the fact that he'd never really given any of her advisors or companions an _explicit_ reason to mistrust him, she knew several of them did - deeply. And for him to disappear so suddenly, just as the Inquisition achieved the seemingly impossible, only heightened suspicion. The fact that this mysterious elven apostate, with a pretty flimsy backstory, had broken Ellana's heart... well, that was just the cherry on top, she supposed.

The crowd in the bar was loud and boisterous. Ellana took another long drink from the bottle of wine. "You know, I'm just so tired. Tired of running through almost two years worth of... everything in my mind, trying to figure out where I went wrong. How did I not see this coming? Why would he do this? And yes, I know, I am pitifully naive. But why just... string me along?" Her voice grew shaky, but louder. "Why not just cut me loose a long time ago, instead of dragging it out, if he knew he was going to leave in the end? 

Dorian placed his arm around her, pulling her in and pressing her head onto his shoulder. "I don't know, Ell. Maker knows what was going through that bald head of his. Which, by the way, I've never quite understood..." She rolled her eyes at him. "Yes, sorry, I know, not really the time for that. But honestly, there's him, and then there's _you_. Was he _blind_? I don't even like women, and I'm slightly aroused just looking at you. Poor Cullen, I'm fairly sure he's walking around with a permanent erection at this point. Solas couldn't possibly think he was going to do any better."

She couldn't help but burst into giggles, "What are you talking about?"

Now it was Dorian's turn to roll his eyes. "Oh, _please_ , Ellana. You are not possibly _that_ naive. Our dear Commander would bark like a fucking mabari if you ordered him to! And it's not because you're the Inquisitor. When that dear, sweet chantry boy kneels down beside his bed at night, he's not praying to Andraste. Oh no, I'm sure he's filled with very unchaste thoughts about Andraste's Herald. And his hand is filled with..." 

A deep blush spread across Ellana's cheeks as she interrupted him, "Really, Dorian! You are so... full of shit!" Cullen? It honestly had never even occurred to her. 

"Full of shit, am I?" Dorian smirked, and patted her on the shoulder. "Well, he's right over there, so why don't we go see?" 

"Dorian, no!" 

Thankfully, she was rescued by Varric's approach. He eyed their half-empty bottles of wine, and frowned. "You just defeated some crazy ass darkspawn magister bent on destroying the world, and you're drinking this shit?" He plopped down three glasses and a bottle of Antivan Sip-Sip onto the table, and began pouring. "I thought I heard that "fuck it" was your motto for tonight? Because I've got a bottle _full_ of it right here. And it won't melt the hair off your chest like that... whatever the hell that is Bull drinks. C'mon, be a good girl and take your medicine, Inquisitor." 

Ellana took a sip of the dark amber liquid, and her eyes watered. She quickly downed the rest of the glass. 

"That's the spirit!" Varric chuckled, and immediately began refilling. "So listen, this sitting in the corner and moping thing... you're kind of putting a damper on the whole celebratory vibe everyone's got going on. Tell you what, I'm going to keep filling this glass, and you're going to keep drinking until you lighten up, or pass out." 

"Or drag our dear Commander back to your quarters." Dorian opined. 

Varric burst into laughter, "Well, shit. I guess Curly's gonna die a happy man tonight."

Ellana poured herself another glass, and drank quickly. "Personally, I'm hoping for "pass out." Then I don't have to listen to you two cackling hens anymore. You really aren't as clever as you think you are." She began refilling her glass again. 

"Oi, Quizzy! Get your arse up here, we're doin' shots again!" Sera shouted across the inn. 

"Well, gentlemen, that's my cue." Ellana quickly drained the third glass of sip-sip, and rose from her chair, a bit too quickly. She grabbed the edge of the table, as the room began to tilt again. "It's time for the Herald of Andraste to officially get shitfaced."

 

\---

 

The next morning, Ellana woke in her bed, fulled dressed. As she looked herself over, though, she realized that she was wearing someone else's boots, which were about three sizes too large. After her little pep talk from Dorian and Varric, the night was pretty blurry. She had a vague recollection of doing a duet of "Sera Was Never" with Maryden. And she remembered Sera being quite cross with her about this, until she promptly passed out under a table. 

Why was the light so bright? The sun was trying to kill her. "Fuck it" was a very, very bad idea. Drinking was a very, very bad idea. 

Ellana lied back in her bed, and watched the little motes of dust dance through the air, illuminated by the morning rays streaming in through the tall French doors. She suddenly felt very small. The enormity of the past months crashed down on her. She pressed a pillow over her face, willing herself not to cry. If she started, she feared she wouldn't be able to stop. Her breath came in ragged gasps. She pulled the pillow away, and blew out, watching the tiny specks scatter.

This wasn't how it was supposed to happen. She wasn't supposed to wake up in an empty bed. Why did she feel like a lonely little girl again? Why did people always leave her? Her mother had died giving birth to her. She couldn't really mourn someone she'd never known. But the look on her father's face when he spoke of her... When he said how much she looked like her, how proud her mother would've been, how much she would've loved her - that look of bone deep sadness, the tears that pricked at the corners of his eyes. He was so strong, always strong for her, except when he talked about her mother. Ellana remembered feeling guilty that she couldn't share this sadness with him, like she was somehow betraying her mother's memory. 

Then her father had died when she was ten. She remembered seeing the other hunters shouting for help, as they carried his limp body back into the camp. She remembered his pale face, and his torn and bloodied tunic. She remembered the Keeper and the other healers working frantically over him. But he was gone. And she was alone. 

She was the natural choice to go to the Conclave. She was curious, and read everything she'd been able to beg, barter or steal. She was a skilled hunter, but her clan was hardly in short supply. And, though she'd always felt a general sense of belonging, there wasn't anyone who would _really_ miss her. The explosion, the Mark, the title - Herald of Andraste - it was strange and overwhelming at first. But deep inside, she relished the sense that people needed her, relied on her. She slowly built a family of her own from the Inquisition she helped cobble together. For the first time, in a long time, the loneliness ebbed away. 

At the center of all of this was Solas. He was the sun in her little universe. She was like a flower, always desperate to face him, eager to seek him out, bask in the light he cast. She thought she'd finally been enough for someone, enough to make them want to stay. But he'd left her all the same. 

_"No matter what comes, I want you to know that what we had was real."_

She sat up, pushing her legs over the edge of the bed, resting her head in her hands. The tears came, hot and bitter. 

If it was real, why did he leave?

The sun rose further over the peaks of the Frostbacks, and she tried to calm herself, taking slow, deep breaths, in through her nose, out through her mouth. She reminded herself over and over that she _wasn't_ alone. She had people who cared for her. _They_ were real. 

She kicked off the mystery books, and walked to the washstand, splashing cool water onto her face. The longer she sat in her room alone, the easier it would be to pick her choices, her thoughts, her entire self apart. Corypheus was dead, but there was still work to be done.


	2. Aftermath

It was eerily quiet in the main hall of Skyhold. A handful of servants and runners were moving about, but it was otherwise rather silent. This was the first time Ellana had anything resembling true "leisure" since the Conclave. She'd carved out time before, but it was always a conscious decision to do so. Pleasure came at the expense of Inquisition duties. She felt strangely tense, without the purpose of destroying Corypheus driving her forward.

She decided her purpose for today would be to find the owner of the mystery boots. Someone was going to wake up in their stocking feet, and maybe they could fill in a few blanks from last night. Josephine would be a good place to start - "sleeping in" was simply not in her vocabulary.

When she entered the ambassador's office, she couldn't help but notice that Josie looked remarkably alert, at least compared to Ellana. She was settled comfortably into the chair behind her desk, which was covered in a well-organized mountain of scrolls and parchments, ink and quills. She moved like a conductor before an orchestra, ready to select the principal players and gently guide the whole into a beautiful melody. How she'd retained her sanity amidst the cacophony of begging, pleading, haggling and manipulating was a mystery to Ellana. But somehow, through it all, she kept the wolves at bay, and left the Inquisition's allies largely satisfied.

Josephine looked up from her papers with a startled expression. "Oh, Inquisitor! I was not expecting you this morning," she said, looking Ellana over. "I understand you had a rather... entertaining evening. I must admit, I quite enjoyed myself last night as well. I could not have imagined such a boisterous celebration! It was quite a sight to behold. Everyone cheering, toasting, celebrating our victory, _your_ victory, Inquisitor!" She sat back in her seat and sighed wistfully. "What you have accomplished... If you had told me at the start, that the Inquisition would become one of the most powerful forces in Thedas, I would never have believed it. But now, no one could deny it."

Josephine gestured to stack of scrolls, "Messages have been pouring in as word of Corypheus's defeat spreads. Every two-bit noble in Thedas in clamoring to bask in the Inquisition's glory."

"Oh, Josie. I know I've said it before, but truly, none of this would have been possible without you. We would have pissed off everyone between Amaranthine and the Anderfels a long time ago had it not been for you," Ellana quipped. She knew Josephine rarely accepted praise without objection, so she hoped couching it with humor made it a bit more palatable to her humble ambassador.

Josephine demurred, "Inquisitor, you are too kind. I am grateful to have played my part." She cleared her throat, "The end of Corypheus is the beginning of a new chapter for the Inquisition. One which I must begin arranging."

Ellana smiled, and nodded. "Of course. Oh, but Josephine, can I ask you something?" She lifted the pair of black leather, overlarge boots. "Do you have any idea whose boots these are?"

The usually unflappable Antivan was positively stumped by her question. "How...?" She shook her head, "Actually, nevermind. Well, they are definitely too small to belong to the Iron Bull. I saw Commander Cullen shortly before you came in, and he was most definitely wearing his boots. They look much too... rough to be Dorian's. Perhaps Varric?"

Ellana grinned sheepishly, "Thank you, Josie. Your discretion is appreciated, as always."

She left the office to search for her favorite dwarven smut peddler. Varric was settled down at his usual table near the hearth in the great hall. He, too, was seated before a pile of parchment, his brow furrowed, quill in hand.

"So, next edition of _Swords and Shields_?" Ellana asked, the corners of her mouth quirked up in a wry grin.

Varric looked up, and arched an eyebrow. "Very funny, your Inquisitorialness. You know that you and Cassandra are the only ones who read that trash. Although, after taking down Corypheus, maybe I do owe you a special edition." He placed the sheet he was holding back down onto the pile. "No, this is more current events. I'm thinking "This Shit is Weird: The Inquisitor Lavellan Story" for a title. What do you think?"

Ellana slowly shook her head back and forth in amusement. "Well, it's probably the most truthful title you've come up with. I doubt the same can be said for the contents, though."

"What?" Varric placed his hands over his heart, and his exquisitely maned chest, in a gesture of mock pain. "Inquisitor, you wound me! Sure, I may, let's say, _embellish_ a bit... exercise my artistic license, but only for the pleasure of my faithful readers."

Ellana laughed again. "Well, who am I to stand in the way of pleasuring your faithful readers? As delightful as that sounds, though, I have something that may belong to you." She held up the pair of boots. "Look familiar?"

Varric smirked, and propped his feet up on the table - feet which were clad in well-worn brown leather boots. "Sorry, kid, they're not mine. I knew you had a good time last night. Maker knows I've got a few blank spots of my own. But, uh,were these mystery boots... next to your bed, or...?"

"No!" Ellana nearly shouted. "No, not _that_... I was... _wearing_ them when I woke up," she muttered, a blush rising to her cheeks.

The dwarf burst into raucous laughter, "Well, shit, this is definitely going in the book." He quickly thought better of it, though, as he saw Ellana glaring at him. "Alright, alright, I'll behave. Really, I've got no clue. After your little duet with Maryden, I know you were getting pretty rowdy with Rylen and some of the other soliders. I'd say your best bet is to go ask Curly to take them down to the barracks."

Ellana slumped down into a chair beside Varric, and thumped her head down onto the table, groaning. " _Fenedhis_ , I made an arse out of myself..."

"Nah, you had a good time. You needed it, we all did," he replied.

They both sat quietly for a moment before Varric's expression turned more serious, "So, uh..." He cleared his throat nervously. "Listen, how are you doing, really? I mean, killing Corypheus... I didn't really doubt you would, to be honest. I'm sort of used to badass women slaying the evil guys - at this point, I kind of take it for granted. But, well... Everything with Chuckles..." He sighed, "Listen, I just want to make sure you're holding up alright. I don't know exactly how things went down, and I know Sparkler's been keeping you company... But, you know, I'm here if you wanna talk about it."

Ellana glanced up at him, her eyes quickly darting back down. She ran her fingers anxiously over the scarred wood of the table top. "I appreciate it, Varric, truly. I don't really want to talk about it, though, or think about it, or do much of anything about it either. Right now, I'm just going to ignore it and feel vaguely angry. Because that's a perfectly healthy and mature way to handle these things, yes?"

Varric gave a bitter laugh, and shook his head, "Yeah, I'm not really the best example of how to handle shit. But, I get it, and I'll leave it alone for now."

She nodded, grateful that she didn't have to explain. The vast majority of the time, she felt only a deep appreciation for her friends. But the downside to her life becoming so closely twined with this new "family" was the sense that some things were never truly private. There was always a feeling that someone was watching, wondering. It was born out of care for her, though, so how could she possibly feel resentful of that? Still, it made her feel like her innermost thoughts, feelings, fears, pain were on display. She hated the feeling that she could never truly hide her vulnerabilities. It made her feel more naive, more foolish. No matter how many titles she acquired, she still felt rather like the "kid sister" of her companions and advisors. Her big brothers and sisters always seeking to break her fall, mend her heart, protect her feelings. They respected her professionally, but took a vested interest in her personal life. When everyone's lives were riding on her keeping a clear head, she supposed it made sense.

And she wasn't the first friend that Varric had watched spiral downwards...

As she was about to leave the dwarf to his writing and continue her quest for the owner of the boots, she saw Commander Cullen stride through the doors of the Main Hall.

While she usually likened Cullen to a lion, today he looked every bit the proud peacock. His armor was polished to a mirror shine, and even his fur mantle looked a bit less tatty. His face was freshly shaved, the scar above his upper lip no longer hidden under a scruff, and naturally, his blonde curls were tousled to perfection. Ellana couldn't help but smile to herself - no one would dare to accuse the Commander of being a vain man, but it was a running joke amongst them that he put a surprising amount of effort into making his hair look effortless. She'd once found a jar of pomade on his desk - it was Orlesian, and smelled like oakmoss and elderflowers. She'd kept that little tidbit to herself, knowing it was precisely the sort of thing the rest of her companions would tease him for relentlessly. Or would end up in one of Varric's books...

She was still smiling when Cullen noticed her sitting with Varric. As soon as he caught sight of her, the proud peacock faltered, his determined stride was diverted toward the hearth. She knew Cullen was older than her - he'd been a templar in Fereldan during the last Blight, and then was Knight-Captain in Kirkwall. But he still had such a boyish grin. His lips raised slightly higher on the side without the scar, and the smile extended upwards to his eyes. They crinkled just enough for her to know it was sincere.

"Inquisitor, it is a pleasure to see you. You're... looking very well." He stammered, hand reaching back to rub at his neck.

Ellana blanched slightly, "You say that as if you were expecting otherwise." She turned to Varric, pressing a hand to his shoulder, "I shall leave you to your work, my special edition won't write itself after all."

She rose from the table, stepping toward Cullen, "Commander, I have a bit of a mission I hope you might help me with."

A flustered grin spread across Cullen's face. "Of course, Inquisitor, it would be my pleasure."

She held up the boots. "Please tell me you know who these belong to."

"...Boots?" Cullen asked her, clearly baffled. "Well, they look like fairly standard issue for our troops. Shall I take them down to the barracks, see if someone claims them?"

Ellana sighed gratefully. "Yes, thank you. Perhaps I may save face with the Inquisition's soldiers after all."

She handed the boots to Cullen, and followed along beside him as he walked slowly through the hall. She could see the Commander stiffen slightly as she moved closer to him. But, she'd learned long ago not to take that personally. Despite the fact that she and Cullen had developed a remarkably friendly rapport, he'd kept up a very clear physical barrier. Particularly after her relationship with Solas became common knowledge... Her Commander was nothing if not a perfect gentleman.

"Inquisitor-" he began.

"For pity's sake, Cullen, how many times must I ask you to call me Ellana?

He bowed his head, a small, embarrassed smile on his lips. "Old habits die hard, _Ellana_. Would you like to play a game of chess later? I have some paperwork I really should see to... but considering that most of my men are severely hungover, I think very little is going to get accomplished today."

"Well, I lasted an impressive _fifteen_ minutes during our last game, so I certainly think I have time for at least one game. You know, I tried to get Dorian to teach me, but he only wanted to show me a multitude of ways to cheat. He really is not helping to dispel the Tevinter stereotypes..." Ellana turned her eyes up to meet Cullen's, smirking. 

"This evening, then? We can meet in the Chantry garden, or in my office..." he trailed off.

 _Or in my office?_

Well, that was... different. They nearly always played in the Chantry garden, unless the weather was poor, and then they set up the board on a table in the main hall.

Why couldn't she simply enjoy a friendly game of chess with the Commander of her forces, in his office?

Ellana knew why she hesitated, though. For the same reason Solas coincidentally seemed to stroll through the garden or the hall during their games. She'd seen it as sweet at the time, her attentive lover seeking her out. He'd never spoken ill of Cullen personally, so why should she have thought anything of it? But if she was honest, she'd sensed a wariness in Solas, though she'd brushed it aside at the time. She was so blindly attached to him, it didn't occur to her that he might see those innocent, friendly games with Cullen as anything more.

And here she was, even after he'd left, after he'd made it perfectly clear that whatever had been between them was well and truly over, still feeling some misplaced sense of loyalty to him. Still feeling like she had some obligation to him that dictated the choices she could make.

But she owed Solas nothing. She had control over her choice - to play in the Chantry garden, surrounded by sisters and supplicants. Or in his office, alone.

_Fuck him._

"This evening sounds perfect. I'll meet you in your office, after dinner."


	3. Sleeping Alone

 

Ellana climbed the stone staircase to Cullen's office a few hours after her evening meal. Cullen had taken dinner in his office, and she'd been roped into discussing a formal banquet with visiting nobles and dignitaries that Josephine was planning. Of course, a fancy party meant fancy new attire. She'd reluctantly gone along with the matching uniforms for the Inquisition's visit to Halamshiral, despite feeling rather like a toy soldier. In retrospect, it had been a good choice. Fighting, eavesdropping, preventing assassination, and taking down a murderous Duchess would have been considerably more difficult in a frilly Orlesian ball gown. Then again, simply _breathing_ would have been considerably more difficult in a frilly Orlesian ball gown.

Naturally, the discussion of dresses drew ample commentary from Vivienne and Leliana as well. Ellana protested that she didn't want to be "trussed up like some shemlen Satinalia goose." She didn't expect her comment to be well received, and was startled that it was met with agreement. The ladies all seemed to be of the mind that her "willowy, graceful" elven physique would not at all do to be tied into a corset. After that, she tuned out the talk of organza and voile and chiffon. She was simply relieved that their idea sounded considerably more comfortable than she'd been imagining. And Gods knew, for all their talk of"willowy grace," that she didn't need what little bust she had squashed flat under boning...

She knocked on the heavy wooden door, eagerly anticipating a conversation devoid of parties and textiles and frippery. Often, she and Cullen were content to speak little, and simply enjoy the quiet of one another's company.

"Come in," she heard him call out, his voice muffled through the heavy oak planks. She entered the room, and was pleasantly surprised to find that Cullen had set up a small table and two chairs for their game. The room was dimly lit by candles and lanterns on the walls, and the Commander was still hunched over a stack of papers on his desk.

"Just a moment, I just have to finish reading over this report..." he said, distractedly.

"Do we need to have another talk about you not working yourself to death, Cullen?" she teased. "We did just kill Corypheus. You remember him, yes? Tall, evil, ripped a big hole in the sky?"

Cullen looked up from the reports to the Inquisitor, chuckling softly. "Yes, it vaguely rings a bell. And your point is made. This can wait." He rose from his desk and joined her at the table where the chessboard was carefully set up. He quickly pulled the chair closest to her away from the table, gesturing for her to sit, before pulling out a chair for himself.

She smiled to herself - she still found his chivalry endearingly amusing. She'd traversed what felt like half of Thedas, slaughtered dragons and demi-gods, but the Commander would still insist upon pulling out chairs, opening doors, and standing aside for her enter the war room first. The custom had seemed odd to her, and she'd mistakenly felt insulted, at first. But when she eventually questioned Josie about it, the ambassador had assured her it was merely a gesture of politeness.

Cullen turned the board so that white was facing her, black toward himself. She studied the board for a moment, before moving a pawn. "I'll have you know, I have been studying. Well, sort of. I found several books on chess down in library, and I _did_ skim through one of them a bit..." she said. She'd genuinely hoped to improve her game, largely because of the rather smug grin Cullen always seemed to get when he played, particularly when he beat Dorian. She knew actually _winning_ was an ambitious goal, but studying chess had proven difficult in the face of, well... the potential end of the world.

After the Commander made his opening move, he reached over to open a bottle of wine sitting on his desk. "Care for a glass?" he asked. "Or perhaps it's too soon?"

She laughed, and shrugged her shoulders slightly, as she moved her knight. "Probably, considering last night. But you know very well Tevinter red is my favorite. Just a little bit, though." He carefully poured a small amount of the deep red liquid into the glass, handing it across to her. He poured a slightly larger glass for himself, and studied the board again.

She took a small sip of the wine, letting the flavor roll across her tongue. She relaxed back into her chair, and cast her eyes around the room. For all the improvements that had been made around Skyhold during their occupation, very little had changed in Commander Cullen's office. The furnishings were sturdy and spartan, the massive wooden desk and upholstered chair, several large bookshelves on the wall. The corners of the rooms were still piled with sacks of miscellaneous supplies, and broken furniture covered in a dusty sheet. She knew the ladder led up to his sleeping quarters, and there was the much-maligned hole in the roof. Josephine had complained, repeatedly, about it needing to be repaired, but Cullen seemed oddly set against it.

Her reverie was broken by Cullen quietly clearing his throat. "Your move," he said patiently. She confidently moved another pawn. He raised a brow, and resumed examining the board.

"I told you've I've been studying," she replied tartly.

"So you say, Inquisitor, so you say..." he muttered. She signed deeply. _Inquisitor_ , again. She decided to let it slide, since he'd brought wine.

"Has Josie told you about the grand banquet she's planning?" she asked.

It was Cullen's turn to sigh deeply. "Yes, she started to discuss it earlier... and then I quickly found something else that required my attention. I suppose I'm going to have to wear that blasted uniform again... Maker help me, that bloody _sash_."

She snickered at his grumbling, "Well at least you don't have to get stripped down and poked and prodded like some sort of _doll_. I'd actually be relieved just to wear the uniform again. Vivienne is calling in her _couturier_ from Val Royeaux. I don't even know what a _couturier_ is, but I'm fairly sure it's Orlesian for torturer."

Cullen was grateful for the dim light of the candles, as he blushed, more than he felt he ought to, at the thought of her "stripped down and poked and prodded." He rubbed the back of the neck nervously, praying she didn't notice, before quickly capturing a pawn. 

Her brow furrowed, and Ellana let out a frustrated puff of breath. She set down the glass of wine, and placed her elbows on the edge of the table, concentrating on her next move. She hated being the first one to lose a piece. Cullen took a drink from his glass, and studied her face, amused at how seriously she took the game. He'd first asked her to play not long after they'd settled into Skyhold. He'd been eager to spend time with her, and she'd expressed an interest in spending more time with his as well. But, nothing had seemed to come with it. Dorian had made a few oblique statements during one of their games about Ellana and "that hobo apostate." And he noticed her spending an increasing amount of time in the rotunda. He tried not to allow himself to feel disappointed. He was the Commander of the Inquisitions forces, and far too old to be mooning over her like some lovestruck teenage boy. The friendship that had tentatively formed was far too valuable to him, besides.

"Oh!" she gasped excitedly, as she captured his pawn with her knight. " _Your_ _move_ , Commander." She picked up her wine, drained the last sip, and looked over the rim of the glass at Cullen, feeling rather pleased with herself. He chuckled, and picked up the bottle of wine to refill her glass.

They sat quietly for the next few minutes, as he considered his next move, and she glanced around the room again, waiting for her next turn.

"So..." she began, her voice faltering. "It's hard to believe that it's... _done_. Corypheus is dead. I can't believe I was marching out the Valley less than a week ago. And now, we're here... playing chess. Like everything is normal."

She stared down into her glass, her lip pulled between her teeth - a nervous habit of hers, he'd noticed. "I'm not sure I know what "normal" is anymore, to be honest," he said.

She looked up at him, and smiled ruefully. "I think our perspective of "normal" is definitely skewed."

"Have you... given any thought to what comes next?" he asked. He wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer. He worried he'd begun to take the Inquisition for granted. There was comfort in the routine of their mission, in the pressure, the stress, the strain of pursuing Corypheus. Even though this is what they had all been fighting towards for so long, he felt like the balance had suddenly shifted. He wasn't ready to think about what came after...

"I'm trying not to think too far ahead anymore, really," she replied. "There's still red lyrium and red templars and smaller rifts to close. That will keep us occupied for much of the immediate future, I suppose. But it's odd to think about... possibilities. Options."

She paused, and moving her queen across the board. "Well, honestly, Andraste was burned alive, so I didn't really think her Herald would necessarily fare any better. It seems a little unreal that Corypheus is dead, we're still all here." She lowered her eyes, and mumbled, "Most of us, anyhow..."

 _She looks so lost_ , he thought. He reached across the table, and hesitantly placed his hand over hers. "I had no doubt you would do it," he said, his voice almost a whisper. He cleared his throat nervously, and pulled his hand away.

 _I just didn't know if you would survive it.._.

He continued, "I didn't know quite what you make of you, or any of this, at first. But serving the Inquisition, I have never felt more sure of anything. I have never felt prouder to follow anyone else, Inquisitor. I have done much I regret... but this has felt like... redemption. At least in some small measure."

They both sat quietly, his words hanging in the air. He slid his bishop toward her, his eyes staring forward into the empty corner of the room. "I joined the templars when I was thirteen, and I followed them blindly. I found so many ways to rationalize what I did," he spat out bitterly. "Joining the Inquisition, following you, is a decision I have never had to rationalize. It's one of the few choices I've made that has given me no regret. I have little doubt everyone here feels the same. And those who chose to leave... I cannot believe they will ever find a greater purpose than this."

She felt a tightness in her chest, hearing his words. She felt... unworthy. She knew much about Cullen's past, both what he had told her, and bits and pieces she'd heard from others who'd known him before, like Varric. But this felt less like conversation, and more like a confession. He deserved more than trite platitudes, but she was at a loss just what to say. Comfort? Reassurance?

"Well, if you weren't already the Commander of the Inquisition's forces, I'd accuse you of gunning for a promotion," she replied. She instantly regretted it, her defaulting to nervous humor. "And... you're calling me Inquisitor again. If you're going to beat me at chess, you can at least call me Ellana."

He nodded, a smile pasted on his face. But she could see the insincerity. "Of course, Ellana."

She was doing this all wrong.

"Cullen, I could not have asked for a better Commander, or a better friend. I know we've disagreed at times, but you never undermined me or disparaged me. You always stood behind me in the end. I doubted myself constantly, doubted I knew what I was doing. But I never doubted your loyalty. I can't say how much that has meant to me. I think I took it a bit for granted. But I am grateful to you for... all of it. And for this. A quiet game of chess. A conversation where I don't feel like someone is trying to twist or push or pull something out of me. You just listen." She took a breath, moved a pawn forward to be sacrificed.

He decided to take the bait, moving his knight to capture her pawn. "I know they all care for you in their own way, too."

She laughed, and Cullen felt relief wash over him. He knew the conversation had become too serious, too morose. He couldn't help but smile in response to her.

"I know they do, but I _much_ prefer your way, instead of Dorian's way of needling me until I cave in and talk, or Sera's way of irritating me until I snap and tell her what she wants to know. Or Varric's way of getting me drunk because he knows I'll start rambling, or Leliana's way of just spying on me every hour of the day..." She picked up the wine glass, tipping it carefully in her hand. "Although perhaps you are trying to get me drunk."

"I believe it will take more than one bottle of Tevinter red for that, judging from last night," Cullen smirked.

"Gods, I'm never going to live that down, am I?" She sighed, and pushed another pawn forward.

He laughed loudly, and she loved the sound of it. It wasn't bitter or hesitant this time. It was a deep, resonant sound that made her want to put a hand on his chest to feel the vibration on it. There'd been precious little to laugh about, lately.

They continued on with their game, making small talk and occasionally complaining about their companions, until Cullen moved his rook to finish the game.

"I believe that is checkmate, Inqui- _Ellana_ ," he said.

She groaned, "You know I don't really care about losing, but you always look so smug. It's quite insufferable. Except when you beat Dorian, then it's adorable."

 _Adorable?_ he thought, feeling his face flush slightly. His hand started to move toward his neck, but he forced himself away from the habit, resting it on the table again.

"You played well. Definitely longer than fifteen minutes this time," he quipped. She rose from her chair, and Cullen stood with her. He knew it was late, he knew Josephine would want to meet in the war room in the morning. He knew he shouldn't press his luck, but he did anyways.

"Inquisitor, allow me to walk you back to your quarters."

She hesitated for a second, before accepting his offer. _He's just being polite again_ , she thought. Another bit of his quaint Fereldan chivalry, nothing more. She needed it to be nothing more right now. Yes, she'd felt brave and bold accepting a game in his office. She'd felt like rejecting everything of Solas. But it was still far too raw and fresh, and the thought that her Commander might want something more terrified her.

Remembering soft kisses at the door... invitations in, rarely accepted. "There are too many eyes, _vhenan_ ," he'd said so often. But he was gone now.

She knew she was being silly, fearing it was more than intended, though.

As they approached the steps leading up to the main keep, they could see patrons milling around outside the Herald's Rest, and heard a raucous noise spilling out as the door opened for those moving in and out. Cullen didn't begrudge his men their merriment, and giving them a day off was all well and good. But tomorrow, he fully expected a considerable amount of grumbling during morning training.

The main keep was virtually empty, and they walked slowly side by side toward the Inquisitor's chambers at the end of the hall. They stood facing each other awkwardly in front of her door.

"Thank you for the game, Cullen. Good night," she said. Despite herself, she placed a hand on his arm, and smiled shyly.

He simply nodded his head and replied, "Good night, Ellana," and turned to walk back through the hall.

She breathed a small sigh of relief, and opened the door to her quarters. Walking up the steps, she remembered how ridiculously enormous it had felt when she'd first moved into it. Space was something that took her a long time to get used to. There was no privacy in an aravel; there was always the press of warmth, another body beside you. Her room here felt cavernous; high ceilings, windows, balcony. The massive bed placed in the center of the room still felt dwarfed by the space itself.

A tremendous sense of loneliness swept over her. She looked at the bed, covered in plush pillows and soft blankets and immaculate linens, all carefully arranged. She changed into her thin cotton night shift, and crawled into it, nesting the pillows around her. It still felt painfully empty, and she indulged herself again, letting the tears fall free.


	4. La Femme D'argent

Intense, piercing pain flowed up Ellana's arm, radiating out in waves from the green of the glow of the Anchor on her palm. It pulled her toward a memory of her childhood - her clan gathered around a roaring fire, the smell of roasted meat wafting amongst the tents. The hunters had been successful that day, and brought two huge rams into camp, suspended from thick branches. They carried each animal in pairs, one end of the pole perched upon each of their shoulders, the beasts dangling limply between. She remembered running her small hands through the coarse, shaggy white wool, her father standing over her.

"Are you proud of your _babae_? We'll all eat well tonight. Run along now, _da'len_ ," he'd said, gently patting the top of her head. But she had stayed behind in the little clearing at the edge of the wood, on the opposite side of the camp from the halla pen, watching him carefully skin and dress the carcasses. Her father then carried the meat over to the fire, but she remained to observe as Iselan scraped and soaked the hides, filled with a strange fascination. Seeing the skins stretched tautly on the wooden drying racks afterwards, she imagined nestling one around herself come winter.

She did feel proud of her _babae_ , bringing the blessings of Andruil to their clan, as they all gathered around the fire, inhaling the rich, savory aroma. Ellana hadn't been able to resist, creeping forward slowly, ever closer to the fire, until she reached out a small hand. She had cried out in pain, and her father quickly scooped her up. "No, _da'len_ , we do not touch fire!" he'd barked, as the pain seared through her palm and tiny fingers, startling her into frightened screaming and a rush of tears. He quickly plunged her hand into a bucket of cool water, his voice now a comforting shush, as he cradled her in his lap. Keeper Deshanna had spread an elfroot salve across the red, blistered skin, and carefully wrapped it in strips of linen. Her _babae_ had kissed her bandaged hand and carried her back to the feast. She'd sat on his knee, as he fed her small bits of the roasted meat until her tearful pouting had faded, pain all but forgotten.

Ellana squeezed her eyes tightly shut, her face contorted, a single tear rolling down her cheek. She gripped her left arm, knuckles white, as sparks of green light flickered up and down her skin. She'd known it was coming - the searing sensation had become all too familiar after closing so many rifts. She inhaled deeply through her nose, forcing herself to exhale slowly, willing the pain to dissipate with her breath.

The damp canvas walls of the tent gave her little privacy, as she struggled not to cry out. She knew her companions would worry, and worrying was pointless. The anchor simply was - it was a part of her, for better or worse at this point. The orb that inflicted it upon her was broken and gone, and so went the only person who may have been able to help... Abandoning her to whatever fate the elven artifact had in store for her. Abandoning her to pain and uncertainty.

Her party had left Skyhold a week ago, setting out to close two small rifts that were reported on the southern edge of the Hinterlands, near the border of the Korcari Wilds. Varric, Cassandra and Dorian had accompanied her, and it was a straightforward mission. The rifts were relatively minor, with the exception of a rather persistent rage demon. Other than a few minor burns, namely to Dorian's robes, it was a satisfyingly mundane task for them. After closing the second rift, they had made their way back to the Inquisition camp near the Crossroads.

As the flickering dimmed, the intensity of the ache slowly began to subside as well. Ellana laid down on the cot in the corner of the tent. Her body felt damp and sweaty, leather armor sticking to her skin uncomfortably. The itchy, brown wool blanket draped over the camp bed scraped at the bare skin on the back of her neck. She was desperate for a bath - a _real_ , proper, boiling hot bath to strip every ounce of dirt, sweat, blood and grime from her. It was the one perk of her position that she relished - no one was eager to deny the Herald of Andraste a warm soak in the tub. She would dry herself down afterwards, and smooth over her skin with one of the lightly scented oils that appeared along with the bath, the luxuries that apparently befit her station.

She could hear the chattering of her friends and the Inquisition soldiers outside, and smelled something vaguely meaty and stew-like. Camp cuisine was not high on her list of favorite meals, but she knew she should eat anyways. Her appetite had waned in the stress and exhaustion of the past few months, and Josephine began to complain that she was looking noticeably thin. Having Orlesian pastries shoved in her face was getting tiresome, so Ellana was determined to make the best of whatever the camp cook had put together.

The stew was surprisingly edible, if one didn't question the mystery meat, and they'd enjoyed a generous mug of black mead along with it. The potent brew of honey and black currants was a welcomed treat. Varric and Dorian engaged in friendly banter with the soldiers as they ate, and the mood felt relaxed as darkness began to fall over the camp.

As they were gathered around the large bonfire soon after, Ellana sat quietly, content to listen to the hum of the conversation as she stared into the flames.

"So, darling Ell, we're definitely stopping at an inn on the trip back, yes? I know Cassandra will deeply disapprove, but you can simply say Varric and I bullied you into it," Dorian said conspiratorially.

Dorian pushed himself next to her, his hand perched on the ground behind as he leaned in closer. She turned her head to look at him, and gave a weak smile.

"You're ridiculous, you know," she replied.

"Yes, but it's one of the many things you love about me." He rested his head onto her shoulder, and she in turn tilted her head to rest on top of his. They sat in companionable silence for a several moments. Dorian generally had a very poor sense of boundaries and personal space, but Ellana actually enjoyed this aspect of their friendship. In the absence of the close quarters of Dalish life, Dorian's physicality was tremendously comforting.

"We smell terrible," he said, breaking the quiet. He felt her body tremble with laughter, and a satisfied smile spread across his face. Beneath his usual veil of humor and sarcasm, he was worried for his friend. Yes, she was the Inquisitor, Herald of Andraste, Closer of Rifts, Defeater of Corypheus, Bearer of Delightfully Perky Tits, et cetera. But she was also a person - an unexpectedly true friend that he cared for deeply. _Maker, how old is she even?_ he thought. _Twenty-two? Twenty-three?_

 _That smug fucking elf..._ He had held his tongue, practically bitten it clean off at times. She was happy, Solas was making her happy, and she hardly needed more stress added to her plate. So he joked and teased and kept his deeper opinions to himself. He was her friend. And when _he_ broke her fucking heart, as Dorian feared the bastard would, he was her friend then, too. He held her as she fell apart, because he needed her whole, and the world did, too. He helped her piece a facade back together, and place one foot in front of the other.

He could see the wheels turning, worry grinding at her. He could see the marks that Solas had left, and he wished he could erase them. She was _good_ \- too good for Solas, too good for him, too good for any of this. The least he could do was try to make her smile.

"Fine, you win," she replied eventually. "I think we'll pass by an inn on the road outside of Edgehall. You'll just have to accept your stench for another day or two."

"I think I can bear that," he chuckled. When Dorian spoke again, he lowered his voice, "I hear your chess game has dramatically improved, along with Our Dear Commander's mood, evidently."

"Really, Dorian?" she said flatly. "It's just chess. And I still lost."

"Of course you did, Ell. I'll deny it if you ever tell him, but Cullen is quite a good player." Dorian made an exasperated wave with his hand, and continued, "Anyhow, getting back to your little game... the two of you tucked away in his office all evening. _Playing chess_ , of course. I'm certain Cullen had to say a few extra verses of the Chant of Light before bed that night."

He felt her shoulders rise, and sharply fall, as she sighed. "It was just a game. And Cullen is just a friend. Let it go, please."

"Alright, fine," he conceded. "But... Oh, don't give me that look, I _will_ let it go, just hear me out. I know it's too soon, and I know it still hurts. Don't shut yourself off, though. Just... keep an open mind."

She reached over and patted him gently on the arm, an unspoken agreement. She knew he just wanted her to be content and happy, and he would take it upon himself to seek it out for her if need be. The pushing, pulling, prying, yes it was all of that, but it really was done with love. An insistent, sometimes irritating form of love, but love nonetheless.

 

Even with their stop at the (surprisingly tidy) inn, the party made it back to Skyhold ahead of schedule. The soldiers stood at attention, arms held stiffly across their chest, as they crossed the bridge and the gates were raised. The sun had dipped below the mountaintops, but still cast a bright red-orange glow over the sky. She dismounted, handing the reins of her horse off to the groom, and with a quiet exhaustion made her way towards her quarters.

Once inside, she peeled the stiff leather and samite from her body gratefully, leaving it in a crumpled heap on the floor. She dipped a soft square of cloth into her washbasin, and wiped away the worst of the filth and stickiness from her skin. Clad in nothing but her smalls, she collapsed heavily onto the velvety upholstery of the settee. Her eyelids began to droop, but she was roused abruptly by a sharp knock at her door.

"One moment, please," she shouted down the stairs.

She ran to her dresser, and quickly throwing on a loose linen tunic and skirt. Hurrying down the steps, she opened the door, where a maid greeted her with a tray. Food, _real_ food - roasted chicken rubbed with fragrant herbs, potatoes and vegetables, a crisp, bright red apple... and an elaborate, presumably Orlesian, pastry. _Josie_ , she thought. The flaky, delicate layers were topped with tiny sugared violets. It _did_ look delicious. She accepted the meal eagerly, and asked the maid to prepare a bath for her shortly.

After sating herself, pastry and all, the heavy copper basin was hauled into her chamber, and maids brought in buckets of steamy, hot water. She could have kissed each of them, and soon sank into the scalding, perfumed bliss. She lost all track of time while she was submerged in the tub. Leaning her head back against the metal rim, she closed her eyes and simply let her mind drift. She was too tired for her thoughts to settle on anything in particular.

As the water cooled, and her limbs began to feel impossibly heavy again, she dragged herself from the bath, and wrapped the plush cotton toweling around her. She was too exhausted to anoint herself with oils tonight, and was content to slip on a thin cotton shift before collapsing into the warmth of her bed.

 

 

\--

 

 

The next morning, she was woken by a brief knock at her door, before it was abruptly opened.

"Darling, you must make yourself presentable at once - the _couturier_ arrived yesterday and we're all eager to begin," Vivienne's voice echoed up the stairwell.

Well, shit, as Varric would say. She'd almost forgotten about the Orlesian torturer.

She turned her face into the pillow and groaned audibly. After nearly two weeks of riding on horseback, sleeping rough, stalking through the edge of the wilds, slaying demons and closing rifts... this was literally the last thing she wanted to do.

She could hear the clicking of Vivienne's shoes on the smooth flagstone, growing closer. Her bed was warm. Her bed was comfortable. Her bed was not trying to force her into some ridiculous shemlen get up. But it was probably not the best idea to piss off Madame de Fer first thing in the morning.

She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, and ran her fingers through the tangled mass of chestnut brown waves that cascaded down her shoulders. Her body felt stiff, and her aching muscles protested as she clasped her hands and stretched her arms high over her head.

"Oh dear," Vivienne muttered, as she reached the top of the steps, and strode imperiously across the room. She looked Ellana up and down with a steely gaze, audibly clucking her tongue in disapproval. "I've had Madame Iseult set herself up in my chambers, so we can conduct the fitting without any interruptions. Josie and Leliana are waiting as well. We've been consumed with the preparations since you left two weeks ago, and your dress is the final detail that must be sorted."

Ellana knew that a grown twenty-three year old woman should _not_ throw a tantrum like a small child. She was sorely tempted, though.

She pushed herself off the edge of the bed, and stalked past Vivienne wordlessly, practically stomping across the room toward her dresser. She jerked one of the drawers open and pulled out a delicately embroidered tunic and a pair of supple, caramel-colored deerskin trousers.

"I'll be there in five minutes, Vivienne," she said, her words clipped, and voice filled with thinly veiled irritation. Apparently this was enough to satisfy the Iron Lady, and she left the room without another word.

Ellana dressed quickly, and then sat down on the small upholstered bench in front of her vanity. The top was covered in various bottles of lotions and potions and oils that somehow seemed to mysteriously appear there. She honestly didn't even know what half of them _were_. She ran her fingers down a tall glass bottle, filled with a viscous amber oil. The little square of parchment affixed to the side read "Huile de Nigelle" in swirling, elaborate calligraphy. She thought Leliana had said it was for her hair.

She stared into the gilded oval mirror in front of her, and frowned. Her hair was a mess. Maybe she would have to give the mystery oil a try after her next bath. She brushed her unruly locks until they were relatively smooth, and quickly pulled her hair up into a loose bun. She pressed a small silver comb into the top of the mass to secure it in place. If this wasn't good enough for Madame Iseult, well, there was always the red uniform to wear.

A sense of dread filled her as she climbed toward Vivienne's suite. She could hear the tittering of ladies' voices before she even entered the room, and reminded herself that this was all an important part of The Game. Much as she loathed the political maneuvering, it was essential to continuation of the Inquisition. That is what had made any of this possible in the first place - carefully securing the support of influential people. Their support is what put uniforms on her soldiers backs and weapons in their hands. It's what put food on their tables, it's what paid for the repairs to Skyhold. Yes, their mission was a righteous one, but since when did that actually matter? She understood the importance of The Game, but it didn't mean she enjoyed playing it.

The room had been rearranged into what she imagined a studio must look like. A small dais had been set in the center of the room, where she assumed she would stand to be stripped and swathed in fabric. A small wooden table was laden with the tools of the seamstress's trade - measuring tape, scissors, pins, needles, thread of every color. A staggering number of large trunks were piled around the room, several open and bursting with textiles of every pattern and color.

Madame Iseult was a short, plump woman, nearing middle age, and surprisingly plain. Her dress, however, was anything but - an elaborate confection of deep sapphire blue taffeta and lace trim, that flattered her remarkably. This was a hopeful sign, the _couturier_ obviously knew her trade. Leliana and Josephine were picking through one of the open trunks, as Ellana hesitantly entered the room.

"Inquisitor, you are just in time," Vivienne greeted her, her face placid, smile fixed in place. "Why don't you undress and step up, and we can all get started, yes?"

The next hour and a half were some of the most deeply awkward moments of Ellana's life. Standing in front of her spymaster, ambassador, court enchanter and an Orlesian seamstress, in nothing but her breast band and smalls, was a bizarre experience. Once the initial flush of embarrassment wore off, she felt rather outside herself. It was indeed like being a doll - the women commented on her shape, her size, her coloring, as if she wasn't even standing there.

The dressmaker first began by wrapping the measuring tape around every conceivable aspect of her body, jotting down the measurements carefully into her sketchbook. Josie peered over the woman's shoulder, and her brows narrowed, lips turned down into a frown as she read what was on the page. She knew this meant more frilly cakes and elaborate pastries on her dinner tray...

An impossible number of silks, velvets, brocades, and chiffons were wrapped and draped around her as she stood there numbly. Josephine favored a rich aqua blue cut velvet, with a curling floral pattern - the color matched her eyes almost perfectly. Leliana pushed for a bold crimson red silk, shot through with tiny silver metallic flecks. "I have the _perfect_ shoes to match," she'd said. Vivienne pushed for a dark emerald green chiffon, embroidered with delicate vines and tendrils.

In the midst of this, Madame Iseult stood still and silent.

" _Non_ ," she declared with finality. Her lips pursed, and she stared intently, her eyes slowly trailing up and down Ellana's body. She placed a finger to her lips, and hummed knowingly, then began furiously sketching.

"The Inquisitor, she is not a lady who needs to wear her nobility. We must not detract from _her_. All of this," she gestured toward the piles of fabric, "it _is_ a distraction. The Lady Inquisitor, she is the Herald of Andraste, _oui_? The Champion of the Faithful. And in the chantry, are our statues of the Maker's Bride clad in corsets and lace? _Non_!"

She hurried across the room, digging through of the the chests, mumbling to herself in Orlesian. "Ah!" she cried, a delightful smile of her lips. "Yes, this is _parfait_."

A bolt of pure white silk was draped across her arms. " _This_ is what we must use. She will look as if the Bride has descended from the Maker's side." She handed her sketchbook over to her enraptured group of advisors. "And your guests, they will be torn between reverence, blasphemy, and lust."

From there, it was a flurry of gossamer white being pinned and tucked into place and tacked on to her. Madame Iseult's skilled fingers busily moved around her body, as Vivienne, Leliana and Josephine offered commentary and critique. Ellana's left foot had begun to go numb, but the seamstress shot her an irritated glare every time she moved so much as a single muscle. Besides, she didn't wholly _hate_ the idea of this dress. A light, loose, flowing dress was infinitely preferable to the ruffly, overwrought confection she had assumed would be created for her. She'd be able to _breathe_ at the banquet, and that was no small mercy in a room full of pompous nobility.

"Excuse me, Lady Nightingale," came a hesitant voice from the corner of the room. A runner was clutching a roll of parchment as she nervously stepped across the room toward Leliana. "Commander Cullen would like to speak with you at your earliest convenience. He would like to discuss..." she cast a wary glance at the Orlesian seamstress, "something rather urgent."

The runner handed the scroll to Leliana, who unrolled it and quickly scanned the contents. "Hmm, yes, I understand. Well, tell the Commander that he can join me here, and then we can discuss it with the Ambassador and the Inquisitor as well."

"...Here?" the soldier said nervously, eyes glancing up at Ellana, still standing on the dais with her left arm held out wide, as Madame Iseult draped fabric into a billowing sleeve.

"Yes, _here_ ," Leliana said with finality. "You do not need to concern yourself with our Inquisitor's modesty. Besides, she is completely covered. I do not wish to make the Commander wait any longer than necessary to discuss such an urgent matter. Do you, Ambassador?"

What looked to Ellana like a suspiciously _knowing_ glance passed between the two women, before Josephine quickly replied, "Of course not, Leliana."

"There you are, then." Leliana said. The runner was dismissed, a mixture of dread and relief on her face.

Vivienne and Josephine had begun bickering over how to style Ellana's hair, when heavy footsteps announced the arrival of the intrepid Commander. They paused briefly, before continuing up the stairs and around the corner into the room.

He cleared his throat nervously. _Why in the Maker's name had Leliana called in him here now?_ The Inquisitor was propped up on some stool, looking like... that, as they fluttered around her, fussing over her.

Ellana looked down at him desperately, her eyes wide and pleading, as she mouthed "Help me." Cullen was no use, though. He was steadfastly avoiding so much as glancing at her.

"Oh, Commander, you're just in time," Leliana chirped.

"Are you certain this is the... _appropriate_ time to discuss Inquisition matters?" Cullen stammered. _And why is it so hot in here?_

"Well, Josie, Ellana and I are all here, and Vivienne's discretion can always be counted upon. Madame Iseult is quite distracted by her work, and I can assure you she has been thoroughly vetted, anyhow," Leliana said confidently, brushing aside all concerns. "Besides, we could always use another opinion as well. You've always seemed to have quite a _tasteful_ eye, Commander."

"Ah... I suppose... Anyhow," Cullen began, clearing his throat yet again, as he fumbled with the parchment in his hands, "we have reports of a rather large cache of red lyrium southwest of Jader. I believe we should send out a scouting party immediately to investigate, before sending a larger force to handle the issue."

"Yes, I agree, Commander," the Ambassador opined. "We should first ascertain the veracity of the report. A scouting party will be able to give us more accurate information, and determine just how large any cache of red lyrium is."

Leliana nodded in agreement, "I'll arrange for a group of scouts to set out immediately."

Cullen nodded as well, his hands nervously clutched around the crumpled piece of paper, as his shifted slightly back and forth from foot to foot. "Well, if there's nothing else-"

"Oh, Commander, do stay for just a moment more," Vivienne purred. "As Leliana said, we'd simply love to hear your thoughts on Madame Iseult's creation. Our perspective thus far has been decidedly feminine, and we must be sure that our Inquisitor's attire is equally satisfying to the masculine."

Madame de Fer turned to Josephine and continued, her tone decidedly conversational, "Speaking of which... Ambassador, did I tell you that I just received a letter from Grand Duke Gaspard? His previous engagement has fallen through, and he is delighted to say that he will be able to attend our little fête after all. He's also quite looking forward to claiming the first dance with our fair Inquisitor. I suspect even Gaspard will be quite enchanted when he sees her in this gown. Don't you agree, Commander?"

Cullen crossed his arms, and he felt his mouth twitch down at the corner. He respected Grand Duke Gaspard, that much was true. The man was an accomplished and well-respected chevalier, and like himself, was no great fan of The Game. But he was smug, and Orlesian... He felt the bile rise in his throat as he envisioned him smirking and pawing at the Inquisitor... who, yes, _did_ look enchanting. In fact, enchanting was a dramatic understatement. She looked like an elven goddess, something to be worshipped and venerated, not simpered over and twirled around a dance floor.

"It is quite a... becoming dress," he said simply. He was not going to let himself be lured into their trap this time. _Maker, why do I put up with this?_ he thought. "Leliana, I will have a copy of location of the red lyrium delivered to your desk, and leave you to dispatch the scouts at your discretion."

He nodded politely to them all, with a mumbled "Inquisitor," as he glanced up at her on the low platform, then quickly turned on his heel and exited before he could be roped into giving any further opinions.

" _Really_?" Ellana said wearily, glaring sternly at each of the three women in turn. "Was that _really_ necessary?"

Leliana burst into laughter, "Of course not. But it is terribly fun to see the Commander blush."

Ellana sighed, and began to wonder if perhaps she was losing her mind... because she honestly wondered whether she'd rather just fight Corypheus again, than have to sit through another tedious affair.

It was going to be a very long week.


	5. Thank You

"I  _ am _ trying!" Cullen shouted.    
  
"Well, try  _ harder _ , because if you crush my foot one more time with those ridiculous Fereldan boots of yours, neither of us are going to be dancing this evening!" Dorian stepped back, sucking in a deep breath to soothe his growing irritation. He bowed his head forward, fingers pinched against the bridge of his nose. "Alright, now, let's try this again, from the top, Commander."     
  
Cullen stood arrow straight, wrapped his left arm around the mage's waist, and as they clasped their right hands together.   
  
"One, two, three, four,  _ turn _ , two, three, four," Dorian called out, as he guided Cullen through the steps once again. "Good, now  _ turn _ , two,  _ left _ ,  _ right _ ..."    
  
They'd been practicing for a week and a half, and Cullen still felt like a lumbering idiot. He could gut a man half a dozen different ways with hardly any thought, but dancing, that required every ounce of concentration he could muster.    
  
Almost two weeks before, after the ill-fated "war table" in Madame de Fer's quarters ( _ More like a bloody boudoir _ , he thought), he'd sought out Dorian for a game of chess. Beating the Tevinter would put him in a foul mood, which in turn would put Cullen in a very good mood. It seemed like the perfect idea to take his mind off of things - that is, until Dorian began talking about the banquet.    
  
"So, will you be the first one lined up to take our fair Inquisitor for a spin across the dance floor?" the mage teased.    
  
"No," Cullen replied curtly. "Apparently that honor will go to Grand Duke Gaspard. Besides, I don't dance."    
  
" _ What _ ? You're going to let some Orlesian twit manhandle her, while you stand there twiddling your thumbs? Because  _ you don't dance _ ?" Dorian shook his head indignantly. "Andraste's tits, she's never going to stop moping over that bald prick at this rate..."   
  
Cullen all but slammed his rook into place on the board, then sat back, arms crossed, glaring at the man across from him.    
  
"Fine. I'll do it. Meet with me tomorrow after dinner. I'm teaching you to dance," Dorian declared.    
  
Every evening after that, Dorian met Cullen in his office. They went through the steps, over and over. The mage was not exactly the most patient teacher, but he was persistent. Cullen had nearly given up after the first night, but Dorian simply kept showing up. He'd tried to pretend he was busy reading reports or signing requisitions, but the mage simply yanked the papers out of his hands and tipped him out of his chair.     
  
It was the morning of the banquet now, and this was his last chance to go over the motions one more time before the festivities began that night.    
  
"And three, four, step back, and  _ bow _ ," Dorian directed, as Cullen breathed a sigh of relief. "Well, you're as ready as you'll ever be. You still move like a druffalo with a stick up it's arse, but I do what I can."    
  
"Thank you for the tremendous vote of confidence, Dorian."    
  
  
\--   
  
  
  
"Open your eyes as wide as your can, and look up," Vivienne instructed, kohl pencil balanced between her fingers. Ellana trained her eyes on the ceiling, as a practiced hands drew a thin, dark rim under her eyes. As the hand was drawn away from her face, she blinked rapidly and then looked into the mirror, turning her face from side to side.    
  
"Yes, yes, darling, you look beautiful," Vivienne muttered, as she dipped a brush into a small clay pot of silky, translucent powder. The bristles were incredibly soft on her face, and she stifled a giggle as they brushed across her nose.    
  
Madame de Fer then picked up a tiny metal tin, opening it to reveal a deep crimson paste. "Open your mouth just slightly," she said, touching the tip of her finger lightly into the tin, and carefully dabbing the color onto Ellana's lips. "Now press your lips together."    
  
"Perfection," the enchantress declared. "One last item..." Vivienne picked up an ornate cut glass flacon, and dabbed the liquid onto her wrists and neck. "A reminder of your lovely adventures through the Hissing Wastes." Ellana inhaled deeply - the perfume was sweet and honey-like, with a hint of fresh grass.  _ Vandal aria _ . She still marveled at how something that smelled so beautiful could grow in such a barren, miserable place.    
  
"Leliana has seen to your hair, your face is complete, and Josephine will be in with Madame Iseult to dress you in a moment. I must go now to greet the Grand Duke and the other guests." She placed a reassuring hand on Ellana's shoulder and smiled, a surprisingly touching gesture from her.   
  
_ Why am I so nervous _ ? Ellana thought. It was like being at Halamshiral all over again, the pomp and circumstance, the fear of saying or doing the wrong thing, knowing all eyes would be on her. She was an anomaly then, though, whereas now, she was a force to be reckoned with. She wasn't begging for approval, her guests were. So then, why was her stomach tied in a thousand knots?    
  
A brief knock at the door, and Josie and the diminutive Orlesian brought in the dress. It was infinitely more beautiful than the stiff red wool she'd worn to the Winter Palace. Madame Iseult carefully fastened a long row of tiny hooks up the back. " _ Parfaite _ ," she said as Ellana turned around to face her.   
  
Gazing at her reflection in the mirror, a stranger looked back at her. Who was this woman, bare face, red lips, silk pleated around her bodice and flowing down her arms? She felt tears prick at her eyes, and blinked furiously once again. Vivienne would scold her if she had to reapply the kohl.    
  
"Indeed," Josephine agreed. "You look beautiful, Inquisitor. I expect at least half a dozen marriage proposals before the evening is finished." Ellana rolled her eyes.    
  
"Now, I must go to join the guests, and make sure everything is... well, as it should be. Remember, this is not nearly as formal as the Winter Palace, there will be no announcements or introductions. But, it would be good to wait for a bit, let the anticipation build before you enter the room." The Ambassador smiled and said, "Everything will be perfect." Ellana wasn't quite sure who she was trying to convince.   
  
The dressmaker exited along with Josie, and Ellana was left to sit in silence for a few moments.     Looking down at the white fabric cascading out from her, she really hoped they weren't serving red wine tonight. Eating, drinking, dancing was going to be a nightmare in this dress. I wonder if Dorian could enchant fabric to repel stains, she thought.    
  
"Oh, well, too late for that," she said to herself. She lifted her chin, pushed her shoulders back, and made her way down the stairs.    
  
Her hand rested on the handle of the door, and she took one last deep breath in.    
  
_ You are the Inquisitor. You've hunted dragons. You've slain Corypheus. You've closed a magical hole in the sky, for fucks sake. Everything will be fine.  _ _  
_   
She opened the door, and entered the fray. The Great Hall was awash in the glow of an impossible number of candles and lanterns. Two long tables and dozens of chairs lined walls, and a smaller table was set up in front of steps leading up to her throne, all covered in crisp linens, ornate bouquets of flowers and silver candelabras. Maryden and a small group of other musicians were set up in a corner. A throng of guests milled about the open center of the room, as servants moved between them with trays of refreshments.    
  
Two Inquisition soldiers were stationed next to her door, armor polished to gleaming. "Your Grace," they greeted her in unison, bowing their heads, then one soldier quickly closed the door behind her.    
  
She stepped forward and all eyes turned to her, a brief stillness falling over the room.    
  
_ Creators, Gods, Maker, Andraste, _ anyone  _ who is listening, help me get through this night. _ _  
_   
The gods seemed to take pity on her, as Josephine swiftly came to her rescue. "Inquisitor, how lovely you look! You remember Grand Duke Gaspard de Chalons, of course?" she said, gesturing to the imposing gentleman following close behind her.   
  
The Duke bowed slightly, "My Lady Inquisitor." He extended his hand toward her, palm open. She laid her fingers lightly upon it, as he bent down to place his lips gently on the smooth skin of the back of her hand. His eyes fixed on her, the corners of his mouth quirked up ever so slightly. "It is a pleasure, as always."    
  
"I hardly recognized you without your mask, Your Highness," Ellana replied. It was true - she was surprised to see the Duke without the ornate masks that were so ubiquitous amongst the Orlesian nobility. He exuded an air of confidence, his physique still lean and muscled despite the hint of grey in his closely cropped hair, with a dark scruff just visible across his jaw. Gaspard looked equal parts noble chevalier and rakish charm. His eyes skimmed over her with barely concealed appreciation.   
  
"Well, My Lady, what is it they say in Tevinter?  _ Si fueris alibi, vivito sicut ibi. _ I hope you are not disappointed. I know I am an old man, compared to your youthful bloom, but I think I am quite a charming one," he said.   
  
And she could not deny that he was indeed charming.    
  
  


\--   
  


  
Cullen anxiously grabbed a glass from one of the trays making their way around the Hall. He didn't particularly care what it was, so long as it took the edge off the anxiety building within him. The rolled his shoulders, shrugging inside the stiff uniform. His hands were sweating within the leather gloves, as he gratefully swallowed down the contents of the flute - something fruity, but undeniably potent.  _ Thank the Maker for that.  _ _  
_   
Varric was droning on, regaling some self-important Antivan merchant and his wife with a (likely fabricated) tale of adventure with the Champion of Kirkwall. He resented the dwarf's ease, and he resented his own tense discomfort even more. The evening had barely begun, but he felt a foul mood creeping over him, and a dull ache began to throb in the side of his skull.    
  
He heard the heavy door to the Inquisitor's quarters slam shut, and the room drew blessedly quiet.   
  
"Well... fuck me," Varric muttered.    
  
Cullen felt like a fool, gawking at her. He'd spent the last week stomping around his office with Dorian, for what, exactly? Who was  _ he _ ? An ignorant Fereldan farm boy, entirely out of place in the midst of this finery. Whereas she,  _ she _ outshone every gleaming bit of silver and glittering bauble in the room. The Herald of Andraste, sent to taunt him, remind him of his own inferiority and unworthiness.    
  
Jealousy crept up his spine, watching the Duke kiss her hand, and leer, Gaspard's eyes practically groping over every inch of the Inquisitor.   
  
A servant passed by, and Cullen eagerly grabbed another glass off the tray. This time it was small, filled with a bright green liquid that smelled distinctly anisic. The Commander knocked it back in one gulp.   
  
"Might want to slow down there, Curly, or you're gonna pass out at the dinner table," Varric said. "That's meant to be sipped, for good reason..."   
  
"Passing out would be a blessing at this point." The longer he watched the Inquisitor flit around the room, mingling with Arls and Comtesses, the fouler his mood grew. But Varric was probably right - drinking himself into a stupor, much as he might wish to, would embarrass the Inquisition as a whole. Josephine had enough on her plate without having to make apologies for him. He'd just have to endure the meal, and try to slip out as soon as possible.    
  
He was roped into making small talk about the weather with the wife of some minor noble from Amaranthine, when the bell rang announcing dinner. As Commander of the Inquisition's Forces, he was seated at the small table near the Inquisitor's throne. The other advisors, and a select few important nobles were seated there as well. Ellana was at the center of the table, her back to the throne, easily visible to everyone in the room. And to her left, Grand Duke Gaspard.    
  
Commander Cullen was seated on the opposite side of the table, two seats down from the Inquisitor, beside Josephine. He watched as Gaspard pulled out Ellana's chair, and watched still as she smiled politely, easing into her seat, the Duke's hand lingering just a bit too long on her arm. If this was to be his view for the rest of the meal, and he prayed Josie wouldn't drag him into any more awkward small talk.    
  
  


\--   
  
  
A line of servants entered the Hall, bearing the first of what would be at least a dozen dishes. No doubt each was chosen to appease some specific noble or other, or simply to display the wealth of the Inquisition. Ellana knew that Josephine had meticulously planned every detail of the evening.    
  
As the silver tray was set down before her, she felt a twinge of panic. Six small, spiraled brown shells were carefully arranged on the plate, each filled with... something green? They looked remarkably like snails, but that didn’t seem right to her. She had no clue how she was supposed to eat this, let alone what exactly  _ this _ even was.    
  
Apparently the emotions played clearly across her face, and she felt Gaspard lean in close at her side.   
  
"I take it you have not tried  _ escargot _ before, My Lady?" he asked.   
  
Ellana looked at him, a bashful smile on her lips. "No, Your Highness, I have not. I cannot help but wonder if my Ambassador is trying to sabotage me."    
  
The Duke laughed, as his hands slowly reached toward her plate. "If I may, Your Grace?" She nodded gratefully. From the dizzying array of flatware set in front of her, Gaspard reached for a small pair of silver tongs, and a tiny, two-pronged fork. " _ Escargot _ is a decidedly Orlesian delicacy. Our Fereldan neighbors often do not appreciate the taste, but you seem much more...  _ adventurous _ , My Lady."   
  
Gaspard placed the tongs around one of the shells, anchoring it in place as he deftly plucked out the small morsel with the fork. " _ Pour vous, _ " he said, holding it aloft in front of her. Ellana thought the gesture was quite presumptuous, but decided to play along, as she delicately placed her lips around the fork. It was slightly chewy, with an earthy flavor, reminding her of the wild mushrooms she'd gathered from the forest floor with her clan.    
  
The rest of the meal was a bevy of equally unfamiliar dishes, though mercifully, none that were quite so complicated to consume. Gaspard continued to play the role of culinary tutor, and despite the lack of masks, she felt rather confident going toe to toe in their intimate version of The Game.    
  
Josephine smiled approvingly across the table, as Gaspard leaned in once more to whisper into the Inquisitor's ear near the end of the meal. A large tray of fresh oysters was served on a bed of ice, decoratively alternated with bright yellow lemon wedges.    
  
Ellana had a feeling Josie's smile might be slightly less approving had she heard what Gaspard said.    
  
"Did you know, Lady Inquisitor, that oysters are considered quite an aphrodisiac in Orlais?" he asked, voice barely audible in the din of the Great Hall, as his lips nearly brushed the edge of her ear. "Shall we try one?"    
  
She met his gaze with a raised brow. This was pushing the limits of their little Game. Nonetheless, she reached forward and plucked one of the rough gray shells from the tray, tilting the contents back into her mouth. A sly grin spread across Gaspard's face as he did likewise.    
  
Dessert was finally served, a delicate pear tart topped with swirls of fresh cream, while Gaspard was engaged in conversation with the Arlessa seated on his other side. Ellana looked across the table and noticed Commander Cullen sullenly staring at the tart, before draining his glass of wine. He was motioning to the steward to refill it, when she finally caught his eye, and gave what she hoped was an encouraging smile. Cullen simply nodded, and resumed picking at the tart.    
  
He had finished nearly half of another glass of wine as she watched him, and she couldn't help but worry. She knew he hated all of this, feeling forced to put on airs he neither wanted nor needed to possess, to play a tedious Game he had no patience for. His brow furrowed, and his hand rubbed at his temple. She decided she would ask one of the servers to discreetly bring him some of ginger mint tea later.   
  
  
\--   
  
  
The last of the plates were cleared from the table, and Cullen finished off yet another glass of wine. He knew he'd had too much. He could feel the dull ache in his head building. But he'd needed something to distract from the scene at the table. Watching Gaspard lean in, whisper in her ear, feed her like she was a fucking child. Yes, he was irritable. And yes, he was jealous. He'd kept his head down, and picked at the food, and drank too much wine. The Inquisitor had looked over at him once and smiled, pityingly. Maker, even her pity was beautiful.    
  
As Maryden and the other musicians struck up a tune, Gaspard rose gallantly from his seat, extending his hand out to the Inquisitor. He watched as they walked arm in arm out to the center of the room, the Duke holding her close as they danced. Other couples soon began to join them, and Cullen turned around in his chair, giving his attention over to the wine once more.   
  
Another glass emptied, and he felt someone shift into the empty seat beside him.    
  
"Are you really just going to sit here and get piss drunk for the rest of the night?" Dorian said.    
  
Cullen glared at him, "So what if I am,  _ mage _ ?"    
  
"Do you really think I had nothing better to do with my evenings than tromp around with you for the past week and a half? Because I can assure, there were  _ far _ more pleasurable things I could have been doing." He grabbed the nearly empty glass from in front of Cullen and slid it down the table. "So, you are not going to waste my efforts."    
  
Cullen was about to protest, as a servant stepped in beside him.   
  
"The Lady Inquisitor asked me to bring this to you, Commander Cullen," she said, placing a small cup and saucer in front of him.    
  
Cullen nodded, and gave a mumbled "Thank you." He leaned forward, inhaling the steam rising from the cup.  _ Ginger and mint _ .   
  
Dorian grinned at him smugly, "Did you really think she didn't notice you grumbling and rubbing your head all through dinner? Wait, never mind, of course you did. Because you're an idiot. But, you are an attractive and well-intentioned idiot. So, why don't you drink the tea Our Dear Herald so sweetly ordered for you, and sober up a bit. Then I shall drag your ungrateful arse across the room if I have to, because you  _ will _ dance with her."    
  
Cullen simply picked up the cup of tea, and drank. He wasn't sure what to think. Maybe Dorian was right. Or maybe I am an idiot...    
  
She'd first brought him ginger mint tea soon after he'd confessed that he was no longer taking lyrium. He remembered those dark days, when he was ready to quit, when he felt he was no longer in control and would only drag the Inquisition down with him. But she'd insisted he stay, and had only expressed admiration for his determination to rid himself of lyrium's pull. He was grateful both for the gesture of support and the tea itself, as it quelled the nausea and eased the dull ache that had been ever present since he'd quit.    
  
One last sip, and there was a pause in the music.    
  
"That is your cue, Commander. Shoo," Dorian said, waving his hands impatiently at Cullen.   
  
  
\--    
  
  
Ellana had been pulled into a conversation with a rather animated young woman dressed in Orlesian finery, who was gesturing broadly with her glass of wine. She was the daughter of Lord... Somebody, and Ellana felt compelled to be a gracious host. But truthfully, she was petrified this woman was going to spill wine on her dress with every swoop of her hand. Miraculously, she'd managed to make it through the dinner with her gown unsullied.    
  
She noticed Cullen walking across the room, headed in her direction. She smiled at him as he approached, grateful for the interruption.    
  
He cleared his through nervously, then held out his hand to her. "Excuse me, Lady Inquisitor, but may I have the pleasure of a dance?" he asked.   
  
She'd expected a reprieve from her inebriated guest, but not  _ this. Cullen didn't dance. Did he? _ She felt her eyes go wide, and she stood there in shocked silence for a moment before answering him.    
  
"Of course," she replied, placing her hand into his.    
  
She could feel his warmth even through the soft leather of his gloves. They walked to the center of the smooth, stone floor, and he placed his hand around her waist. He dressed plunged low in the back, and his gloved fingers rested lightly on the bare skin.    
  
She smiled up at him, resting her hand on his shoulder. "This is a pleasant surprise, Commander," she said, as they began to move together, in time with the music.    
  
He returned her smile, "I may have had some help."    
  
"Hmm, let me guess... Dorian? Bull told me he'd been sneaking off somewhere for the past few evenings," Ellana said. "I'm surprised he didn't just follow him. Though I'd imagine you'd have had a rather jealous Qunari barging into your office if he did."    
  
Cullen chucked, "That... would have been awkward. Even more awkward than trying dance with Dorian..."   
  
"Gods, I think most of the ladies and probably a fair number of the gentlemen in this room would pay good coin to see that," she said teasingly.    
  
"Well, we all must sacrifice for the good of the Inquisition," Cullen replied.    
  
She laughed, and leaned in closer to him. Her lips stayed curled in a smile, as she lost herself in the movement, guided along by Cullen's hand clasped tightly now on the small of her back.    
  
"Thank you for tea, by the way," he said.    
  
"I hope it helped," Ellana replied,  as she cast her eyes down. She watched as they stepped forward and back, in sync with Maryden's tune and with one another. "I know you'd probably rather be tucked up in your office with a mountain of requisitions and scouting reports. But I'm very glad you're here. Dancing with you is infinitely less exhausting than dancing with Gaspard..."    
  
She rolled her eyes, and blew out sharply. "I'm not sure whether he's trying to get me into bed, or plotting to assassinate me. Or if he simply amuses himself by force feeding me snails. One never can tell with the Orlesians."   
  
She felt his shoulder shake with laughter under her hand. Looking up at him, she could see the little crinkle just at the corner of his eyes. That was where she always looked, how she always knew. He looked lighter when he smiled like that, and she felt a tightness pulling in her chest.    
  
They moved together for the remainder of the song, in contented silence. As the final notes were played, they stepped back, bowed to one another, and the dance was done.    
  
  
\--   
  
  
He barely had time to breathe a sigh of relief, and to congratulate himself for successfully not stepping on the Inquisitor's feet, before Ellana was swept away again, this time by Vivienne. Everyone wanted a little piece of her, clamoring to see and be seen - that's why they all came to Skyhold. So that they could go home with a story,  _ "Let me tell you about the time I met the Herald of Andraste..."  _   
  
Dorian had forced his hand just in time, as the guests soon began filtering out of the Hall en masse. Apparently Josephine really had planned every detail, down to the lunar cycle. Still more drinks were being served in the chantry garden, under the light of a full moon.    
  
Cullen retreated back to his seat at the table for a moment, and contemplated slipping out early. He could easily retreat back to his quarters without anyone noticing his absence now. He'd suffered through the mingling and the meal, and had been richly rewarded. He had never so deeply resented a pair of gloves, though...     
  
"This is the part where you say Thank you, Dorian."    
  
_ And there goes my chance to slip away _ , Cullen thought.   
  
" _ Yes, _ thank you, Dorian," he said with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. There it was again - the insufferable smugness. Maker help him, he was grateful, but the mage made it difficult to resist the urge to punch him when he got that look on his face.    
  
"You're welcome. And now that we've got that out of the way... It's time for the next part, where you walk out in the garden, grab two flutes of bubbly, sweep Our Dear Inquisitor off into some secluded corner, and ravish her under the moonlight." Dorian nudged the leg of Cullen's chair with his foot, "And please don't make me tip you out of your seat again."    
  
Cullen's mouth moved, but all that came out was an incomprehensible sputtering sound.    
  
"Oh, don't be a fucking  _ baby _ ," Dorian scoffed. "Besides, if you don't do it, you know that pompous git Gaspard will. And then Ellana with probably have to punch him. So, you see, if you  _ don't _ go ravish her in the moonlight, you will be solely responsible for a massive diplomatic incident."    
  
This is what passed for logic with Dorian.    
  
“Fine,” Cullen muttered, admitting defeat. Grudgingly, he placed his hands on table, and pushed himself up out of the chair. He shucked the leather gloves off, and tossed them down onto the table, before he strode out of the Hall.   
  
The garden was bathed in the bright glow of the moon. Tiny paper luminaries, scattered across the ground, provided pinpricks of light in the shadows cast by the trees.    
  
Servants were circulating again, carrying trays of tall flutes of sparkling wine, with tiny purple-red berries bobbing along the surface. Cullen swiped a glass for himself, then quickly reached up to grab a second.    
  
He looked back and forth, eyes scanning across the crowd of tipsy nobles, searching for the Inquisitor. He saw Gaspard, standing in the corner of garden, having what appeared to be a rather serious conversation with Josephine. He'd have to ask her what that was about later... The Inquisitor, however, was no where to be seen.    
  
Cullen felt foolish, stand there with holding two glasses, gawking out across the garden. He wandered absently along the arcade around the edge of the garden, when he noticed the open door of the small Chapel.    
  
There she stood, surrounded by flickering candles, quietly staring up at the statue of Andraste. He knew she'd never felt comfortable with the title, with the comparison. How could she, really? She was a Dalish elf - how would he feel if he were sent off into the wilderness, and then suddenly propped up as the Harbinger of Elgar'nan?    
  
But right now, the comparison seemed all too perfect, with the stark white of gossamer draped around her giving her an otherworldly glow. He had no doubt this was intentional - another meticulously planned detail. It easily achieved the desired effect, though.    
  
He stepped forward toward the Inquisitor, reluctant to interrupt her reverie, but inexorably drawn to her.    
  
"What do you think, Commander? Would Andraste be pleased with her supposed Herald? I'm not so sure myself..." she said, her eyes still fixed on the statue.    
  
He stepped closer, silently offering her the glass of sparkling wine. She accepted the drink with a small smile.    
  
" _ And in that baleful eye I saw The Lady of Sorrow, armored in Light, holding in her left hand the scepter of Redemption. She descended from on high, and a great voice thundered from the top of every mountain and pinnacle across creation: All heads bow! All knees bend! Every being in the Realm Of Opposition pay homage, for the Maker of All Things returns to you! _ "    
  
She stared at him in stunned silence.    
  
"I'm sorry," Cullen said, his voice plaintive. "But  _ that _ is what people see in you. They see a light in a very dark place. They see the return of hope... I can't imagine how heavy a weight that  is for you to bear."   
  
"I'd never heard that verse before... Thank you," she said, her voice barely a whisper. Ellana looked up at the statue once more, before she turned and sat down on one of the low stone benches along the wall of the chapel. She gestured to Cullen to sit down beside her.    
  
"I fear I've cast a pall over the evening. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to sound so... serious," he said.   
  
"No, don’t apologize. I meant it when I said thank you. It's easy to forget, especially at times like this. Far too easy to get swept up in grandeur of it all, pandering to the nobles. I know they're the ones who fill our coffers, so it's necessary. But you're right... we matter because what we do gives people hope. Not just me, but all of us do. It's important to be reminded of that."    
  
Dorian was right - she was just  _ good _ , too good for any of them.

  
She lifted the flute to her lips, and Cullen couldn't help but wonder if he could taste the berries on her lips if he kissed her right now.   
  
He raised his hand hesitantly, and pressed it to her cheek. _How long have I wanted to do this?_ She sighed, her eyes drifted shut, and he felt her turn and press closer into his palm. _How long have I wondered what this would feel like?_ He stroked his thumb gently along the edge of her bottom lip, her mouth opening just slightly under his touch. _Why didn't I do this sooner?_   
  
He hesitated, and her eyes opened, glancing up at him, questioning.   
  
"Inquisitor? Are you in here?” a distinctly Antivan voice called out from the doorway.

  
He reluctantly pulled his hand away from Ellana's face, and pulled himself up straight, before answering the Ambassador, "Yes, she's right here, Josephine."    
  
"Oh...  _ oh _ ," Josephine sputtered. "I'm sorry Commander, I don't mean to interrupt... but, I must speak with the Inquisitor  _ immediately _ ."    
  
Ellana placed her hand on Cullen's arm and offered him a shy smile, before she rose from the bench. "Of course, Josie, what is it?"   
  
"It is... a rather delicate matter. We should speak in private," Josephine replied evasively.   
  
"As you wish," Ellana replied, before turning back to Cullen. "Good night, Commander," she said, before she followed after their rather agitated ambassador.   
  


Sitting in the now silent chapel, Cullen stared up once more at the statue of Andraste. In that moment, he felt quite convinced that the Maker must have a truly wicked sense of humor.   
  
  



	6. Pull Me Through

Ellana knew she’d probably had too much to drink - and so had he. But sitting there in the Chapel, in the dim light, with the candles flickering, Cullen had seemed too perfectly tempting. The old memories weren’t nipping at her heels, she was just there alone on the bench with him. He’d raised his hand, touched her cheek, leaned in, and she  _ knew _ it probably wasn’t a good idea. But his hands on the bare skin of her back had felt so warm when they’d danced earlier, even through the leather of the gloves. And that little scar above his lip was just begging to be touched and kissed and nipped… She was quite prepared to add another mistake to the litany of others she’d already made.  

But Josephine had interrupted, pulled her into to an empty hallway, and dumped a bucket of cold water over her head. 

“Inquisitor, I have just had a very… interesting conversation with Grand Duke Gaspard,” she began. “He is interested in an alliance. With the Inquisition. More specifically, with  _ you. _ ”

Of course he wanted an alliance,  _ everyone _ here wanted an alliance. That was the whole point of these affairs, wasn’t it? But Josephine just continued to stare at her, pointedly.

“Josephine, I can tell you’re hinting at something, but I’ve had rather a lot of wine and I really can’t be bothered. So,  _ please _ just spit it out,” Ellana replied with more than a little exasperation. 

“ _ Marriage _ , Inquisitor. He wishes to know if you would consider a marriage proposal.” 

She stared blankly the Ambassador for several moments, before she burst into nervous laughter. 

“You’re telling me that Grand Duke Gaspard de Chalons wants to  _ marry _ a Dalish elf? Wait, is that some sort of perverse Orlesian euphemism -  _ marrying the elf? _ ” she snickered, despite the Antivan’s scowl.  

“Inquisitor, _please_ be serious!” Josephine snapped impatiently. “You are not just _a Dalish_ _elf_. You are the Herald of Andraste and the leader of the Inquisition! Really, you cannot be _completely_ surprised by this.”

“Oh,” was all Ellana managed to feebly sputter out. She  _ was _ surprised by it, though. Duchess Ellana? It sounded ridiculous. 

Josephine sighed, “I must apologize, I  _ can _ understand why you would find this so surprising.” She placed a hand gently on Ellana’s shoulder. “I must admit, this is somewhat difficult for me, because I have two obligations, for two different roles. You are the Inquisitor, and I am your Ambassador. But also… You are Ellana, and I am your friend.” 

She took a deep breath, and continued, “So, first, as your Ambassador, let me outline the potential advantages. It could be in the best interest of the Inquisition's longevity to be allied with Orlais. We have had clear goals up until now - closing the breach, then stopping Corypheus. But now those goals have been accomplished. You cannot underestimate how quickly people will forget the favor we did for Thedas. The people will remember a grudge for generations, but a kindness is too easily forgotten.”

“Another potential benefit could be the very thing you have pointed out - you are an elf. Marrying into a prominent position in the Orlesian court could afford you the opportunity to push for greater rights for elves in Orlais, and possibly elsewhere.” 

“Finally, Inquisitor… I do feel there is a reasonable chance the two of you could be happy, relative to most political marriages. I do not think that Gaspard would make an inquiry  _ solely _ for political gain without some other feeling. Obviously, he is attracted to you, and I believe he respects your capabilities as well. I think… well, at the very least, he would not make you miserable.”

Josephine paused, giving Ellana a moment to take in all she said. 

“And as my friend, what do you say?” Ellana asked.

“As your friend… You deserve happiness. I…” Josephine hesitated. “I know it was very difficult for you when Solas left. And it has been good to see you seeming rather more like yourself these past weeks. I do not want you to feel pressured to settle for a simply for the political benefit.” 

Ellana smiled earnestly at her friend, “I appreciate that, Josie. This is all just… a  _ lot _ to take in.”

“Please, do not feel you need to rush. The Grand Duke asked me to gauge your interest, not to make a formal proposal. Take all the time you need, and please know, I will respect  _ any  _ decision that you make.”

Ellana clasped her friend’s hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Thank you, Josephine.” 

The Ambassador made her way back to the garden, while Ellana spent a moment collecting her thoughts. It had seemed harmless enough, playing along with Gaspard all evening. The dress and all the accoutrement had felt like a costume, and so she’d decided to assume the role - the simpering elven maid, the foil to Gaspard’s dashing Orlesian noble. 

It was a role easily cast aside in the presence of someone far more pleasant than the Grand Duke… But she was tugged into an uncomfortable reality after Josephine’s interruption. Now it wasn’t simply a part to play for an evening - it was one she might play in earnest, if she was so inclined.

Was she, though? She couldn’t deny the truth in the advantages Josie had laid out. 

But hadn’t she given enough to the Inquisition already? Hadn’t she given enough to them all? 

She thought she had. And her decision seemed clear. 

\--  
  


Cullen blew out a puff of air, and scrubbed his hands roughly over his face.  _ Maker, what did I almost do? _ He knew he should be grateful for Josephine’s interruption. 

When he’d walked into the Chapel, and saw her standing there… 

“You drunk, stupid fool…” he muttered out loud. Too much wine, too little inhibition, and he’d nearly made a disastrous mistake. 

She did not belong to him. He’d had to remind himself of this over and over and  _ over  _ again. She belonged to the Maker and his Bride. She belonged to that ungrateful apostate. She belonged to the Inquisition. She belonged to the people of Thedas.

He’d let all the small hopes rattle around inside his mind for far too long. When she’d said she wanted to  _ spend more time together _ all those months and months ago… Their conversations, their chess games. The advice she sought from him, which he dispensed far too eagerly. The friendly notes attached to field reports. 

The Inquisitor was a kind woman. And in his own desperation, he’d taken what was merely meant as kindness, and twisted it into something  _ more _ . That was the truth of the matter. 

_ But she didn’t push you away _ . 

No, she didn’t push him away, likely because didn’t want to disappoint him - or she was afraid to upset her sad, unstable Commander, the weak, pathetic fool still shaking a lyrium addiction… 

Cullen decided he’d had more than enough for the evening. He stalked through the halls and across the courtyard, finally slamming shut the door of the tower.

_ Why can’t I just let this go? _

The thought of her, only her, had buried itself in his mind. What if they hadn’t been interrupted? He’d been so close… He could see the tiny freckles across her nose and cheeks. He could see small flecks of gold in the deep blue of her eyes. All he’d needed to do was lean in a few more inches. 

He banged his head back into the rough wood of his headboard.

_ Dammit, not now. _

He could feel himself straining against the worn cotton of his breeches. He might as well just get it over with… He pulled the knot loose, and slid his hand down.

The bare expanse of her smooth skin, covered by the thin fabric of her dress - it had left little to his imagination. A gentle nudge off her shoulders, and it would’ve all easily pooled around her waist. The soft curve of her breasts, the deep coral peaks… taking them in his mouth, hearing her breath hitch with pleasure.

His hardness felt unbearable. As he stroked himself more urgently, all he could imagine was chasing his release inside of her. Warm, wet, willing under him, her legs wrapped around his waist. 

Hearing her moan  _ his _ name, as she broke around him. He pumped down his length once, twice more, and groaned as he finally found relief. 

As he wiped himself down, a wave of regret and shame washed over him.  
  


\--

 

A few of the guests had already begun to pack and set off from Skyhold. The majority would be leaving tomorrow, though - including Cassandra, or rather the soon-to-be Divine. Ellana had been putting off saying goodbye. She was pleased for her friend. Her knowledge of the Chantry was limited, but she had little doubt Cassandra would give every effort to her new position. Ellana would miss her. 

She found Cassandra in her quarters, a huge trunk opened on her bed. It was filled with a modest, neatly folded stack of clothing, and several piles of books. Cassandra Pentaghast - fearless warrior, and secret romantic. It was their shared guilty pleasure.

“You know you’re taking all the best literature in Skyhold with you,” Ellana quipped. “I think that’s what I’m going to miss the most - you are my only friend that appreciates a good bit of smut.”

Cassandra attempted to look sharply at the Inquisitor, but quickly failed, as her mouth curved into a small grin. “This is true. I regretted mentioning Varric’s books to you at first. But, even though you lack discretion, I was glad to find someone who shared my literary tastes.” 

“Are you sure that’s appropriate reading material for the leader of the Maker’s faithful? Because you could always leave them here with me, you know…” Ellana said.

“Oh, no, I could not possibly corrupt the Herald of Andraste with such filth,” Cassandra retorted with mock seriousness.

Ellana nodded as she laughed, “Alright, alright… Point taken.” 

“Inquisitor…  _ Ellana _ , there is something I wished to discuss with you, before I leave Skyhold…” Cassandra gestured to a small table and chairs in the corner of the room, and the two women sat down across from each other. 

“I wished to tell you,” Cassandra continued, “that I am grateful for the time I have spent with the Inquisition. When I think back to where this began, it makes me appreciate our friendship all the more.” 

She paused, her brows drawn close, “There is something else I wanted to say…” Her shoulders moved with the sigh of her breath, and she spoke softly, “I am sorry.” 

“Sorry? Cassandra, you have nothing to be sorry for,” Ellana replied, deeply confused.

“I should have asked more questions, I should have made more inquiries. It’s just… I was so distraught over Justinia’s death, everything was thrown into chaos. And so I took Solas at his word, I trusted that if anything were untoward, Leliana would have uncovered it. It was unforgivably foolish.”

“Cassandra, _ no, _ ” Ellana said. “Solas… he lied to all of us. Do not blame yourself - no one is to blame but him. He wanted something, and he did whatever he needed to in order to get it.” 

Cassandra paused, before asking, “What do you think the orb really  _ was _ ?”

“Something far more valuable than I…” Ellana replied, unable to keep the bitterness from creeping into her voice.

The Seeker scoffed loudly. “No. Absolutely not. Solas was  _ completely _ unworthy of you. If anyone deserves the sort of love we read about in these books, it is you. You have sacrificed too much not to find it.”

“Oh Cassandra, you sounds just like Josie…” Ellana sighed.

“You  _ deserve _ someone who would appreciate you. Someone who would value you and trust your decisions. Someone who would work hard alongside you… perhaps someone who already  _ does _ …” 

“Cassandra…” 

“Fine. I will say no more on the matter. But I mean every word. I wish the best for you Inquisitor.” Cassandra rose from sear and stood next to the Inquisitor for a moment, unsure, before gingerly wrapping her arms around her friend.

“I will miss you, Cassandra,” Ellana says, her voice thick with emotion.

“And I will miss you, my friend.” 

 

\--  
  


Ellana had arrived early for their meeting in the War Room. The prospect of getting back to “business as usual” was a relief. 

The events of the morning left her feeling restless. They had seen off the remainder of their guests, and said farewell to the new Divine. Cassandra would be traveling to Val Royeaux with the Grand Duke and his party. 

She’d seen Gaspard standing alone near the stables, as servants packed the remaining luggage into the carriages. Ellana decided to take the opportunity to speak with him.  _ How does one politely refuse a not-quite-a-proposal from an Orlesian noble? _ This wasn’t the sort of thing the Dalish taught their children. Her instincts, and her advisors, had gotten her this far, though. 

It ended up being far easier than she’d anticipated. She wasn’t sure whether Josie had already said something to him, or whether he could simply see it written on her face. In the end, Ellana wished the Grand Duke safe travels, and he thanked her for her hospitality. He bowed, she bowed, and the carriages set off from Skyhold.

The restless feeling came from the sense that things were changing. How soon before more of her friends would move on? 

Leliana and Josephine entered the room, and Cullen followed quickly after. As they took their usual positions, Cullen seemed to be deliberately avoiding her gaze from across the table.  _ Wonderful. _

She knew there were reports of Red Templar activity to discuss, so perhaps an extended trip in the field would give Cullen the time or distance or whatever needed for…  _ this _ to resolve itself. Whatever  _ this _ was. Between Josephine and Cassandra and Dorian, she was tired of the quips and glances and comments on her “happiness.” 

“Inquisitor,” Leliana began, “I understand that there has been a proposal of an alliance…” 

_ Oh for fuck’s sake. And here I thought she was my spymaster, not a court jester... _

“Yes, and the  _ alliance _ has been politely declined,” Ellana replied, her tone biting.

At this, Cullen finally did meet her eyes, as he glanced quizzically at the three women around the table.

“Inquisitor, I trust you judgement, as do we all. However, if this alliance Leliana mentions could be of benefit to the Inquisition, might it not be worth some further discussion?” he asked.

Leliana attempted to smother a grin. “Maybe Cullen is right, Inquisitor. Perhaps you should make some further consideration of the Grand Duke’s marriage proposal, yes?”

The color drained from the Commander’s face, as he muttered, “Marriage proposal?”

“ _ Fenhedis _ , I am  _ not  _ marrying Gaspard!” Ellana barked. “The matter has been settled. So, there is nothing to  _ consider _ , because sitting on my arse on some tufted Orlesian chaise and gossiping for the rest of my life is literally the least appealing situation I could possibly imagine. Spending two years being called Herald and Inquisitor has been bad enough, I don’t need to add Grand Duchess Ellana to the mix.” 

An awkward silence fell over the room. 

She huffed in an irritated breath. “So, can we  _ please _ move on to more important matters?” 

The meeting did move on. The caches of red lyrium that had been reported previously had been dealt with, but there were now reports of remaining Red Templars further west of there. Ellana, Iron Bull, Varric and Dorian, along with a small contingent of Inquisition soldiers, were to depart as soon as possible to investigate. 

Leliana and Josephine both made hasty exits, which Ellana thought was rather wise. Once they had left the room, though, Cullen approached her.

“Inquisitor, if I may detain you for a moment… I wish to apologize for my behavior. Two nights ago, after the banquet... In the Chapel…” He cleared his throat nervously. “It was completely inappropriate, I don't know what possessed me to be so... forward. But I can assure you, it will not happen again."   


“Cullen, do you think I am weak or helpless?” she asked. 

“I… No, of course not!” he replied.

“Then please do not apologize to me. Since I am neither weak, nor helpless, it stands to reason that if I ever  _ do _ happen to find your behavior untoward, I will tell you so. Until then, you can assume that I am quite unoffended.” 

Several emotions flashed across the Commander’s face, before he simply nodded. 


	7. Truth

It was almost two weeks before they were able to leave Skyhold. Three days of poor weather provided the first delay, quickly followed by Dorian’s “Injury of Unknown Origin.” Ellana was fairly sure that the “origin” was Iron Bull and that frightening-yet-strangely-fascinating mass of rope she’d seen hung from his ceiling once. (Dorian firmly denied _any_ knowledge of its existence.)

Soon after the mage was on the mend, half of the barracks contracted food poisoning. The healers were stretched thin, so Ellana and Vivienne both pitched in preparing tonics of elfroot and prophet’s laurel. Once the soldiers had been nursed through the worst of it, they finally began packing up to investigate the reported Red Templars.

It was at this point that Sera decided she wanted to come along as well.

“I dunno who pissed in Commander Tightarse’s porridge. But I’m not sittin’ around here with him barking at everyone like a fuckin’ dog. So yeah, I’m comin’ with. Bring on the big bad red crystal pokey bastards.”

Ellana couldn’t really disagree. Cullen _had_ been in a particularly foul mood of late, and she was left feeling somewhat responsible. She knew her reply to his apology had been… terse. But she was tired of being needled, and sick of people assuming that she was incapable of handling her own problems. Especially when there _wasn’t_ a problem. She didn’t understand why he was huffing around like she’d shoved him off of her, when she distinctly remembered doing quite the opposite.

They set off as soon as preparations were made, the Commander noticeably absent as they passed through the gate. It was a hard ride, but uneventful. They reached the Inquisition outpost two days later, and set up camp alongside it. The last reports they’d received put the Red Templars about half a day’s ride to the northwest.

Later that evening, they settled in around the fire. Dorian had retired to his tent early - apparently their journey had exacerbated the “injury.” Varric rooted out a small cask of ale from the cache of supplies, and passed mugs around.

“Maker's balls... This stuff tastes like love in a canoe,” Varric said.

“Love in a canoe…?” Ellana asked, wondering if this was some dwarven turn of phrase.

“Yeah, it’s fucking close to water,” he replied, unceremoniously pouring the contents of his mug out onto the ground.

Bull groaned audibly, but Sera burst out into raucous laughter.

“It’s… it’s a boat joke, _and_ it’s a sex joke… Cause, ya know, _fucking_ ,” she sputtered between giggles.

“See? Buttercup gets it,” Varric said. “But hey, speaking of fucking… What’s going on with you and Curly?”

Ellana nearly choked on her drink. “ _What?”_

“C’mon boss… you two prance around the dance floor, slip off to the Chapel, and then he spends the next two weeks snapping at anything that moves,” Iron Bull said. “Either you fucked and it was bad, or you _didn’t_ fuck and he’s got one hell of a case of blue balls.”

“I… _What?_ No! We didn’t _fuck_ , we didn’t...  _anything!_ Are you all really so desperate that you have to pry into things which are absolutely _none_ of your business?” Ellana snapped.

“Aww, c’mon Quizzy… Listen, we all know Elfy McBaldfuck did a number on you, yeah? And I guess Commander Tightarse’s not the _worst_ choice to get your rocks off with,” Sera added. “I mean… he’s got pretty big boots. Or hands. One of 'em. Whichever one means he’s got a big cock. If you’re into that. You _are_ into that, right? 'Cause ya know, me and Widdle always got room for a third…”

“Sera, please. Shut. Up.”

Ellana closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. She knew that Varric would eventually write an account of the Inquisition’s deeds. Most of it would be ridiculously embellished, but this… somehow she knew _this_ conversation would be added to the tale verbatim.

“Alright, I want all of you to listen very carefully, because I will say this just once. My sex life, or lack thereof, is no longer up for discussion. The end. If you want to talk about Widdles and rope swings and threesomes, I can’t stop you. Much as I may wish to at times. But leave _me_ out of it.”

Iron Bull shrugged, and heaved himself up from the ground. “Sure, whatever you say, Boss. You two are gonna fuck whether we talk about it or not, anyways.” He dumped out the rest of his mug, and headed into Dorian’s tent.

Varric smirked. Sera snickered. Ellana threw the rest of her ale into the fire, and stalked off to her own tent, once again deeply regretting her choice of friends.

\--

The next morning, they had saddled up and set off.  The sun was nearly over head when they crested over a small hill, and looked down into the valley below. They saw the remnants of an abandoned village - chimneys toppled, thatch long gone from the roofs. The war had left many such places scattered throughout the countryside.

Lurking amongst the ruins, they could see at least half a dozen Red Templars.

“Three archers, a couple more with swords, and… _Shit_ , a behemoth,” Iron Bull said.

Ellana felt her stomach drop as she spied the beast. She still found it hard to believe that something so monstrous could have once been a man. The creature towered over the other templars, massive spikes of lyrium raised from its back, dragging its huge red lyrium claw along the ground. It reminded her of a perverse imitation of the small lobsters she used to catch along the riverbank as a child.

“What do you think, Bull? Should we go back for reinforcements?” They’d set off as a party of five, intending to scout the area and report back to the outpost if they needed the additional soldiers to provide support. The information they had was scant, so they hadn’t known precisely how large of a group they would come up against.

The qunari hesitated, “I dunno, boss… The archers, no problem. The guys with swords, not so bad. But the big one?” Bull growled. “Tough bastard. And we don’t know if there’s more hiding inside still. It’s your call.”

She knew Dorian’s fire spells would be ineffectual against the behemoth. It was with more than a little bitterness that she knew Solas would be the most helpful in this situation. She’d considered asking Vivienne to accompany her, but the mage had been steadily pulling away from working in the field since they’d defeated Corypheus. Ellana suspected Madame de Fer would soon be the next of her companions to leave the Inquisition.

As she considered their options, an arrow whizzed past her head. It seemed the decision was made for her.

“Fuck,” she said, pulling out her daggers. “Sera, Varric, take out the archers first. Dorian, concentrate of the ones with swords.”

She looked anxiously at Bull, “Ready?”

He nodded, greataxe in hand. The two of them charged down the hill, the others trailing behind, laying down a barrage of arrows and fire.

They were able to make quick work of the archers, while the guardsmen came at them head on. Iron Bull reared back and heaved his axe into the Templar’s shield, leaving a crumpled square of metal in its wake. Another vicious swing and the Templar’s body collapsed in a bloodied heap.

 _Shit._ More foot soldiers emerged from one of the abandoned buildings.

An arrow promptly lodged itself between the eyes of one, as Varric shouted out in praise of Bianca. Ellana plunged a dagger into the side of another, while keeping a wary eye on the behemoth, as it lumbered toward them from the edge of empty village.

“Bull, it’s coming closer!” she shouted.

“I see him, boss!” he said, slicing through another soldier.

They were surrounded by half a dozen enemies still, when she felt the ground shake. She moved frantically, trying to dodge away from the creature while parrying blows from the Templars’ swords.

Ellana knew they’d lost control of the fight. She should’ve been more careful, should’ve retreated, should’ve known there’d be more hidden from sight. They may have been driven mad by the lyrium, but they were still trained soldiers.

She heard Bull shout out over her shoulder, but turned too late to dodge the behemoth’s massive lyrium claw.

 

\--

 

“Come on, Chestnut, time to wake up…”

“Shit. Shit shit shit _shit…_ She’s alright, yeah? Yeah. _Sod it,_ she’s gotta be. She not gonna just fuck off die _now '_ cause that’d be stupid, right?”

“Heeey, boss. There you are. No, keep 'em open…”

She can hear the voices, but none of the words make sense. Her eyes are open, but the shapes blur in and out of focus. She can feel the bile rising up in her throat, watching them move and swirl around her. It’s too hard to keep them open. If she closes them, the nauseous feeling will ebb away, and then she can just go to sleep.

 

 

* * *

 

  
  


Cullen furiously paced the battlements, his eyes trained on the horizon.

 _They should be back by now_ , he thought.

The raven had arrived three days ago, saying that the Inquisitor was injured and their party was returning to Skyhold immediately. He’d pressed Leliana for more information, but she insisted that all she knew was that the Inquisitor had lost consciousness for some amount of time and was stable now.

Arms held stiffly behind his back, he stomped back and forth across the high stone walls, tracing the same path over and over, like an animal trapped in a cage.

He’d not even bothered to see them off. He’d decided to stalk around and glower at everyone instead.

_What was I even so angry about?_

Cullen heard the rumble of hooves and soon saw them heading over the bridge toward Skyhold. He set off down the stairs, running toward the courtyard.

She was draped across Iron Bull’s lap, one arm hanging down limply at her side. She looked pale and fragile, as the healers quickly surrounded them. They moved her onto a litter, and immediately carried her off to the infirmary.

Bull clapped a hand roughly onto his shoulder, “She’ll be alright. Just took a knock to the head. Healer’s will have her patched up before you know it.”

He nodded, numbly. Leliana had said she was “stable,” and she looked far worse than he had expected. He knew the Inquisitor had been injured before, certainly. But he’d never seen her looking quite so vulnerable.

Cullen wandered over to infirmary, where Josephine was standing outside, fidgeting anxiously.

“They said she will be fine. She just needs quiet, and to rest for a time.”

 

Cullen kept vigil outside for several hours, before Mother Giselle took pity on him and ushered him inside.

\--

   
“ _In the long hours of the night_ __  
When hope has abandoned me, __  
I still see the stars and know  
_Your light remains_.”

Her hand felt so warm, clasped in his, as he sat there beside her bed. She gave his fingers a gentle squeeze.

His head snapped up, “Ellana?”

She opened her mouth to speak, but only a faint croaking sound came out.

“I’ll get you some water,” he said, releasing her hand and quickly retrieving a glass from the table near her bedside. He gently slid his hand under the back of her head, lifting it forward as he pressed the glass to her lips, letting the water trickle slowly into her mouth. She swallowed gratefully.

“I was trying to say that I need to teach you a prayer to Mythal, for the next time I get knocked out,” she said, forcing her lips into a small smile.

Cullen’s brows drew together, and his mouth flattened into a hard line. “I’d much rather there wasn’t a next time... How are you feeling?”

Ellana inhaled deeply, and winced, a spear of pain driving into her ribs. “I’m feeling… like I got smashed in the chest by a behemoth and knocked to the ground.”

He took her hand again, folding it gingerly between his, her fingers gentle curving around the edge of his palm.

“Bull told us what happened.”

“Then I suppose I am ready to be scolded, Commander,” Ellana replied. “We should’ve gone back to camp to get more soldiers. I can’t even blame it on being hungover this time, because apparently the Inquisition has taken to watering down the ale…”

“Stop. _Please_ ,” he whispered.

He stared down at the their hands, resting on his knees, as he stroked his thumb across the smooth top of hers.

“I… was worried,” he said, as he raised her hand to his lips. He pressed a light kiss against it, inhaling deeply, breathing in the soft scent of her skin.

“You should do that again.”

He lowered her hand back down beside her on the bed, nestling it into the blankets draped over her.

“You must know I care for you. I know I’ve acted like…”

“An arse,” she interjected.

“Yes… And I know this is not… You’re…” he stammered.

“Cullen, _shh._ ” Ellana lowered her head back into the soft pillows. “You are going to sit here next to me, and I am going to close my eyes. Because the room is spinning again and if I keep watching it go around and around, I am probably going to be sick... Which might spoil the mood a bit.”

They together in silence, as he listened to the sound of her breath begin to slow. She heard the legs of the chair scrape against the floor as he stood up. She felt the warmth of his breath as he leaned close, brushing away the damp strands of hair before placing a chaste kiss on her forehead.

A smile played across her lips as she heard the door close.

  
  



	8. We're Alone Now

Ellana had never been so desperately bored in her entire life. 

She’d spent two days in the infirmary, being fussed over by the healers. They all pronounced her incredibly lucky - a concussion, some cracked ribs, and severe bruising. She hadn’t been able to fully dodge the behemoth, but thankfully it had been a more of a glancing blow to her chest. Even an indirect hit from the beast had been enough to knock her backwards forcefully. The concussion came when her head snapped back to the ground. 

Not that she really remembered any of this. Bull had been kind enough to fill in the gaps, and to give her the scolding she had been anticipating. It needed to be said, though. She’d been careless and incautious, and Ellana was grateful that no one else was badly hurt. Bull had taken advantage of the behemoth’s preoccupation to swing his greataxe into its back, and they managed to clear out the rest of the red templars before rushing her back to the outpost.

She was moved back into her quarters, but given strict orders for bedrest. It was a blessing in disguise for the first couple of days.  Despite her entire chest being snuggly wound in strips of gauze, the injured ribs made even breathing in too deeply painful. 

Her friends and advisors had all visited, albeit briefly. Varric’s initial appearance had insured that visitation was limited, after he decided that laughter was the best medicine. Ellana quickly discovered that laughter and cracked ribs were  _ not _ a good combination, and he was summarily dismissed from her quarters after levity turned into misery. 

The only notable absence was the Commander. Under the baleful eye of Mother Giselle, Cullen had come to visit her again on her second day in the infirmary. But she hadn’t seen him since.

By the fifth day in her quarters, she begged one of the maids to take a note to Dorian.

  
  


_ D, _

 

_ I am dying of boredom. _

_ Please rescue me. _

 

_ XO, _

_ Ell _

 

_ P.S. Bring smut. And wine. _

  
  


~

 

Dorian had approached the door to the Inquisitor’s chambers several hours later. Mother Giselle had been called to duties elsewhere, and Ellana was being tended to by a young Chantry Sister. 

With his usual charm and aplomb, he’d convinced sweet Sister Enid that Ellana would be perfectly safe in his care, and that he would fetch her at once should the need arise.  She descended the stairs with flushed cheeks, muttering vague assurances that she would return to check on Ellana later. 

The two of them had sprawled out in the enormous bed together, her head nestled in his lap, as his fingers gently coaxed the tangles out of her long chestnut curls. They’d spent the afternoon swapping tales of youthful mischief, from their days before the Inquisition. 

“...And  _ that _ is the story of how I nearly burned down a Minrathous whorehouse. No one was injured, though, so don’t give me that look,” Dorian said, yanking playfully on a strand of her hair.

“Now it’s  _ your _ turn. Hmm... let me think.” He pursed his lips, fingers idly twisting the end of his moustache. 

_ Gods, he’s so dramatic,  _ Ellana thought, with no small measure of amusement.

“Ah, yes, I have it! Tell me about... _Your first time_. I want to hear _all_ about the dashing Dalish chap who first plowed the fields of Our Lady Herald.” 

Ellana groaned, and draped the back of her arm across her face. 

“ _ Fiiiine _ … But prepare to be disappointed. I certainly was,” she said with a snort. 

“I was… fifteen, I think? Still bare faced. We’d moved south for the summer, and had set up our camp just along the edge of the Vimmark Mountains. His name was Eolas, which was  _ quite  _ ironic come to think of it...”

“And for those of us who don’t speak Elven…?” Dorian asked, with a raised brow.

“It means “knowledge.” Oh, he was  _ beautiful _ , all the girls were wild for him that summer. But, he was not very bright. A bit older than I was - he’d gotten his vallaslin a few months before, which drove us all even wilder. Anyhow, one of the other hunters, Ithelan, he had set up a little still in the woods - brewed this absolutely  _ awful _ stuff. He kept it hidden, though, so the young ones wouldn’t get into it.”

“Well, most of the clan had gathered around the fire one night, our  _ hahren _ was telling some tale or other... Along comes sweet, simple Eolas - and he sits down beside  _ me _ . He whispers into my ear that he’d found Ithelan’s still, and had a waterskin full of the stuff. Then he asks me if I want to sneak into one of the empty aravels for a drink! I was all aflutter, so of course I said yes.” 

“We sneak off, crawl into the aravel, and he hands over the skin. I’d never had anything stronger than mead before, so I practically choked on my first drink. I could feel my face turning bright red, thinking I’d made idiot of myself. I suppose he didn’t mind, though, because he takes a big swig, and…” Ellana covered her mouth, desperately trying to keep a straight face. “And he tells me that I must be a thief, because I’ve stolen his heart!” 

“ _ No _ , you can’t be serious!” Dorian snickered.

“He did! But it gets even better. He leans over really close and says to me, dead serious, “Ellana, please, if I don’t make love to you tonight, I think I will die.” Gods, I thought the top of my head was going to fly right off! I’d hardly even had a peck on the lips. I honestly can’t even remember what I said to him after that… But I suppose it was encouraging enough, because the next thing I know we’re  _ kissing _ , if you can call it that. It was all teeth and too much tongue, while he’s fiddling with the laces on his breeches.”

“Then… well, we’re there naked on a pile of old blankets, and I’m half petrified, half bursting with pride, because I’m the lucky girl who gets to be deflowered by Eolas. Although come to find out, I was one of about half a dozen that summer…”

“And there’s really not much else to tell, since it lasted all of thirty seconds. I just lied there thinking “ _ Is this it?” _ while he’s grunting and groping at my tits. Then his face scrunched all up, and I almost started laughing at the look of him.” 

“I imagine that was a disappointing summer for many of the young ladies of Clan Lavellan,” Dorian said. 

“Oh, don’t feel too sorry for me. A few years later, after I had my blood writing, I found out that Ithelan might be absolutely shite at making moonshine, but he was quite knowledgeable in other areas,” Ellana smirked. 

“Such a tart! What  _ ever _ will our Commander think?” Dorian teased.

“I wouldn’t know.” She rolled onto her side, and slowly pushed herself to sit up. “I haven’t seen him since I left the infirmary.” 

Dorian nodded and hummed, with a tremendously pleased look pasted to his face. Ellana knew this one… It was the “I know something you don’t know” look. She pondered once more how it was that her dearest friend could simultaneously be both incredibly sweet and unbearably irritating. 

“Have  _ you _ happened to see him, Dorian?” she said, taking the bait.

His lips spread wide into a cat-like grin. “Why, yes, I have. I played a game of chess with Cullen just last night, actually. I asked him whether he had visited you since Mother Giselle released you from Healer Jail. But his face just went all pink and blotchy, and he muttered something about  _ impropriety _ .”

Ellana sighed. Propriety and privacy, sneaking and secrets - she was all too familiar with that.  

Dorian watched as her jaw tightened, brows knit tight together. He placed his arm around her, gently nudging his friend into an embrace. 

“I can see the little wheels turning in there, Ell… And I can tell you that you’re wrong. This is nothing like...  _ him _ .” Dorian’s lips turned down in a look of disgust as he said the last word. He had taken to refusing to speak Solas’s name, reducing him to a pronoun that he spat out like sour wine. 

_ “He _ was concerned with himself, and leaving a space to end it while he could still feel convinced he’d done nothing wrong. Cullen, however, is concerned about  _ you. _ He was a  _ Templar, _ Ell. He spent his formative years steeped in prayer and piety, pledging himself to the very same Chantry that calls you the Herald of its prophet. And I imagine that the Commander feels quite conflicted by the fact that he’d like to fuck the Herald silly.”

She buried her face against Dorian’s shoulder, and sighed.

Sneaking around with Solas was always about hiding what they were to one another. Maybe he thought if they hid it from others, they could hide it from themselves. And he could hide his feelings, and hide his heart - a convenient escape route for when he decided things had gone too far. 

She wanted to sing, he only wanted to whisper. And in the end, Solas thought that silence was best for them both. 

Dorian was probably right about Cullen, though. It was the same, but different. The titles she wore made people want to put her on a pedestal, much to her dismay. Maybe Cullen thought he was reaching a little too high, touching something he ought not, dreaming of defiling something that was to be held sacred. She didn’t like it, but she understood it.

“I’m so tired of thinking about all of this…” she said aloud.

Dorian leaned over the edge of the bed, and popped back up with a bottle of Tevinter red in hand. 

“Well, then, why don’t you do less thinking, and more drinking. That is Sister Dorian’s recommended course of treatment.” 

  
~  
  


Several glasses later, Dorian pressed a folded piece of parchment into the hand of a runner, with instructions to deliver it immediately to Commander Cullen. 

 

 

* * *

 

Cullen’s eyes had begun to glaze over while attempting to read a dispatch from Caer Bronach, for the fourth time. He had been drowning himself in paperwork in an attempt to keep busy over the past few days. It was not the most pleasant means of distracting himself, but it was generally quite effective. 

The second time he had visited the Inquisitor in the infirmary, Mother Giselle had been dramatically less sympathetic. She had fussed around the room, tucking blankets and fluffing pillows, all the while keeping a close watch on Cullen. He felt like a child again, kneeling in the Chantry, listening to Sister Bernadette drone on about sins and crimes and guilt. 

With every disapproving glance, Cullen felt like he must have left a brand on the Inquisitor’s forehead, where he’d kissed her the day before. He had stayed only a short time, and said very little, before leaving. 

He knew she’d been resting in her quarters, and he knew that he was the only person who  _ hadn’t _ been by to wish her well. Dorian had made sure he was keenly aware of this last night.  

Cullen was trying to work out precisely  _ why _ he hadn’t gone to see her, when he heard a knock at the door. 

“Come in.” 

A runner opened the door, and apprehensively approached his desk.

“I have a… this for you,” the boy stammered, handing Cullen the folded square of parchment.

Cullen turned the paper over in his hand, before he fixed the young manwith a sharp glare. 

“Who gave this to you?” he barked.

The runner shifted nervously, staring at his feet, “Well, sir… It was Master Pavus, but he asked me not to tell you that.” 

Cullen dismissed him with an impatient wave of his hand, and unfolded the note once the door was shut. 

 

 

_ Dear Commander Cullen Rutherford, _

_ I wish to inquire as to the reason for your noticeable absence during my period of convalescence. I find that confinement to my bedchambers is excruciatingly tedious. In the absence of more engaging entertainment, I seek to liberate myself by any means necessary.  _

_ I am currently assembling a crack team of rogues and bandits to aid in my release. Should you wish to assist, I have no doubt your unique skill set would prove highly valuable. You have demonstrated an uncanny ability to draw the ire of Mother Giselle - my team and I feel this could provide the perfect distraction for my escape.  _

_ Please reply at your earliest convenience, as time is of the essence. Should you wish to decline, your presence would still be greatly appreciated, particularly if you should choose to bring along those little frilly cakes with candied flowers. _

_ Yours, Most Sincerely, _

_ Inquisitor Ellana Lavellan, Herald of Andraste, Master Contortionist  _

 

_ P.S. I am not a contortionist, and I should never dictate my letters to Dorian. I did say the part about the cakes, though. _

 

_ P.P.S. She is both highly flexible and slightly drunk. I think even you can see the opportunity in that.  _

  
  
  


 

* * *

__

  
  
  


Ellana had moved from her bed to the plush sofa, where she was propped up by large pillows and swathed in a heavy wool blanket, at the Sister’s insistence. Blessedly, a package had arrived that day from Cassandra. Apparently one of the perks of being Divine was access to an even wider variety of shameless romance novels.

She was eagerly reading a particularly salacious passage, when Sister Enid escorted the Commander in.

Her face lit up, and Cullen wasn’t sure whether it was because of him or the cakes. He didn’t particularly care either way - he would bring her whatever pastry she demanded to see the sweet, guileless smile spread across her lips. 

“I see you received my note. I’d love to blame it all on Dorian, but I think Tevinter’s vineyards are to blame, not its mages. But, I promise I am quite recovered now, and rather hungry as well,” Ellana said, eyeing the tray eagerly. 

She pulled her feet back, and gestured Cullen toward the empty space on the sofa. He sank down onto the soft cushions cautiously, sitting rigidly straight, tray balanced on his lap. Ellana was pleased to see he’d left behind his armor and trademark fur mantle, and was instead dressed in a loose linen tunic and worn leather trousers. Despite his stiff posture, he looked comfortable in the more relaxed attire. 

“I’m glad to see you’re feeling better,” Cullen began. “And I apologize for not coming sooner. I knew the healers were eager for you to have plenty of rest, and I did not wish to you disturb you again.” 

“Ah, I see,” she said, her tone teasing. “Commander Cullen, are you afraid of Mother Giselle?” She flashed a mischievous grin, and nudged his leg gently with her foot. 

“A devout Andrastian upbringing will put a healthy fear of Chantry Mothers into any man,” he replied. 

She smiled again, and nodded. “The Dalish gods dole out our fair share of fear, so I think I understand. And you certainly didn’t want to get on Keeper Deshanna’s bad side either.” 

Ellana plucked one of the small cakes from the tray, placing it in her mouth gratefully. Cullen placed the tray onto the floor, and she sighed as she stretched her legs out over his lap. 

“You haven’t really talked much about your faith in the past,” he said, while awkwardly trying to decide where to place his hands. Putting them back on his lap and touching her legs seemed… presumptuous. Tucking them down at his sides would seem like he was avoiding her. He settled for resting one on the arm of the sofa, the other draped across the back. 

Ellana shrugged, “I can’t say I’m particularly… devout? I suppose that’s the right word. I was a hunter, and my father was as well. He was marked for Andruil, Goddess of the hunt, so he taught me the  _ Vir Tanadhal _ . And when I was little, I loved listening to our  _ hahren _ tell us stories of the Creators. They all seemed very real then, wise and benevolent, powerful and frightening, watching over us. All the rituals and rites of passage made sense, because of course the Gods deserved their due.” 

“But I think once my father died, it all seemed a little less magical. And I felt very alone...” Ellana’s voice trailed off. 

She sat silently for a moment before continuing, “When it came time for my vallaslin, I had to at least pretend to think on it. We’re supposed to meditate on our Creators and our ways… But I still just felt empty, and picked Mythal because she seemed as good a choice as any. I think it was hard to feel like anyone was really watching over me.”

Cullen was very quiet, and Ellana felt a flush of embarrassment wash over her. 

“Listen to me, going on and on-”

“No,” he interrupted. “I  _ like _ listening to you. I feel like I’ve told you about myself, my past, but I don’t know nearly as much about you.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but hesitated before continuing. “It’s just… to hear you speak of feeling lost, feeling lonely, saying you felt no God or Maker was watching over you. When there are people far and wide across Thedas who see you as… a beacon.” 

Ellana shook her head slowly back and forth, “And that is why it all makes me so uncomfortable. All of these people looking at me as if I am something worth looking up to.” 

“You are, though. And not just because of the mark on your hand.”

She could feel him staring at her so intently, but couldn’t bring herself to meet his eyes. 

She felt him lean closer to her, felt her heart racing in her chest. But she could only look down at his hands, one resting on her thigh now, one reaching up to caress her cheek. His touch was tentative - eager to feel, but only if permitted. Her skin was frozen and on fire, and her breath shuddered as she leaned ever so slightly into his hand. 

It felt too fast and too slow at the same time, but she knew she had to at least look at him. Nervously, she flicked her eyes up to his. And it was written all over his face - the longing, wanting, waiting. All she had to do was tilt her lips toward his, and this time she knew no one was going to interrupt.

The worry felt the same, but his face was so different. She wanted to feel the roughness of the stubble along his jaw, to trace along the line of the scar. But he was waiting, waiting, and why did her lips feel numb now? 

She leaned closer, her legs sliding off the sofa as she pulled herself forward. Her lips skimmed hesitantly close. She felt him exhale, felt the warmth of his breath rush out all at once before he pressed his mouth to hers.

The thoughts that had been hammering so loudly in her head were pulled apart, floating away like fragments without sense or semblance of meaning. All that was left was the overwhelming, insistent need to push forward, push closer into him.  

She opened her mouth wider against his, welcoming every sensation of lips and tongue and breath, until he pulled back slowly. He nipped gently at her bottom lip. Every muscle in him was tensed with restraint, and she pressed her forehead against his, smiling. 

“I feel like I should say that I’m sorry. Except that I’m not,” he said. 

She kissed him once more, just at the corner of his lips, before she leaned back again.

“I don’t want you to be sorry.”

He sat silently for a moment, thoughtful, before he asked, “What  _ do _ you want?” 

A question, but not a challenge.

“I want this, every day that we can. Sitting together, talking. Cakes are nice, too. And kissing.” She noticed the corner of his mouth twitch upwards when she said the last word. “Until we feel like we want more. Does that sounds alright?”

“Yes,” Cullen said, simply - an answer, a prayer. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


Sister Enid eventually returned, and insisted the Inquisitor needed her rest. Cullen promised he would visit her again tomorrow.

Sleep came easily that night for him. Thoughts of blue lyrium replaced with thoughts of blue eyes. Her lips were vanilla and sugar and violets, and he would crawl on his knees to Val Royeaux and back to taste it again.

The cracks and voids had all filled in just a little bit more. 

 


	9. No Turning Back

Several weeks passed, and surprisingly, no Inquisition business required her attention during that time. She had no doubt this directly correlated to a certain Chantry Mother’s insistence that she was not yet fully recovered from her injuries. Ellana found the abundance of caution irritating - her ribs no longer ached, and the bruising had mostly faded, only a few faint yellow-purple blotches left on her skin.

She and Cullen had quietly spent a number of afternoons and evenings together during those weeks, Cullen stopping by her quarters until she was able to join him elsewhere. They shared conversation over tea, and played the occasional game of chess in the garden.

Most days, she joined him in his office, content to watch him go about his work - signing requisitions and scratching out replies with a quill and furrowed brow. He’d had a chaise moved into the room for her - worn, tobacco-colored leather; a pleasant change from her quarters where everything was overwhelmingly _plush_.

There had been a few raised eyebrows from the soldiers and scouts and runners who filed in and out throughout the day. Of course, no one actually _questioned_ the presence of the Inquisitor. Some nodded, some bowed, some greeted her - respectfully, if a bit stiffly. They received a polite nod and smile in return.

She insisted he carry on as usual, and he insisted that she wasn’t at all a distraction. But, truthfully, she was _very_ distracting. Most of the time, she was curled up with a book. His eyes were invariably drawn away from the paperwork, though… Watching her face as she read, the way her eyes would suddenly grow wide, a faint blush would come to her cheeks, and her lips would twitch as she tried to suppress a grin. Watching her form, stretched out across the leather, rather than being armored in it.

This became their routine, pleasantly coexisting, enjoying one another’s company. There were times when Cullen would mutter under his breath over some particularly irritating piece of correspondence, and she would wander over to the desk, peering over his shoulder. Opinions were asked, thoughts were exchanged, and most often, distance was maintained. He was steadfast in his determination to move slowly. Even when she stood close, and he could smell the hint of cypress in hair. Even when she leaned over beside him, and he could see the swell of her breasts under the richly embroidered tunic she was wearing. Even when her hand strayed from the back of his chair, and her fingers brushed through his hair.

Cullen had been more than content with this, until one afternoon he was startled by a cry from across the room. He looked up to see the Inquisitor clutching the book in one hand, and the other fastened tightly across her mouth. She looked over to him, eyes wide, and then folded forward, shuddering with laughter.

Once she regained her composure, she swooped off the chaise and over to his desk.

“Read this,” she said, pointing to a passage on the page. A devilish grin was fixed on her face, her eyes alight, as he glanced down at the words.

She could barely conceal her delight, as his eyes grew wider the further he read. Cullen choked out a gasp of surprise a moment later.

“I... I don’t think that’s… _Where did you get this?_ ” he demanded, his gaze still fixed on the book.

“Where do you think?” she replied, lips spread wide in a knowing smirk. “The Dalish are certainly _not_ prudes but, really, I don’t think _that_ is even physically possible. And… _why?_ It sounds very uncomfortable.”

“Is this really what you’re sitting over there reading all afternoon?” Cullen asked, his tone laced with incredulity.

“No! Well, not _all_ the time. Definitely not books like _this._ The ones Cassandra sends me are _much_ more tame. Varric gave me this one, and… _Fenhedis_ , I’m not sure I can look him in the eye after this.”

Cullen looked awkward and utterly perplexed, and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Ellana immediately apologized, thinking she’d overstepped the mark.

“No, there’s no need to apologize, really. It’s just…” he trailed off.

 _It’s just what?_ He thought. _It’s just you know that what she read is_ very _much physically possible? That it definitely isn’t uncomfortable? Or, perhaps, that you’d be glad to show her just how comfortable it can be?_

“Yes?” she asked, brows raised, waiting for him to finish.

He banished his thoughts, and instead replied, “You have terrible taste in literature.”

“Well, we can’t all spend our days with such delightful reading material,” she said, gesturing to the piles of parchments in front of him.

Ellana plucked the book from his desk, tucked it under her arm, and turned to return to the chaise.

“Wait,” Cullen said, his arm reaching out toward hers impulsively.

She turned her body toward him, as his fingers slid down her arm, slowly twining into hers.

She dropped the book back on the desk, and extended her empty hand forward, fingers brushing through a stray lock of his hair. He was always amazed at how hands that could wield a bow or blades so deftly could also seem so delicate. Her touch was light, gentle. Her smile was benevolent, _always_ , his Herald.

Ellana leaned forward, her hand brushing down his face and to rest on his cheek, while she placed a kiss on his forehead. Her lips lingered, and Cullen wrapped his hands hesitantly around her waist. Cypress and vandal aria and what he could swear was the smell of the sun on her skin filled his senses.

He touched his lips to the smooth, bare stretch of her throat, and felt her grow still. Gently pulling her down into his lap, he placed a slow line of kisses up her neck. His face brushed against her hair, the sea of russet waves draped across her shoulder. Grazing his mouth over the line of her jaw, Cullen watched her tongue glide over the soft rose pink of her lips.

Since that first evening in her quarters, the two of them had been carefully orbiting around one another, events not yet repeating themselves. She’d leaned against him, he’d held her hand, there had been a few chaste kisses to his cheek. He was content to drink in every moment with her. Corypheus was dead, Ellana was alive, and for some reason that he couldn’t begin to fathom, she sought out _his_ company.

But here they were again, on the edge, teetering toward something more. He pressed his advantage this time, but instead of vanilla and violets, it was ginger tea and honey.

She leaned in, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck, deepening their kiss. His fingers brushed at the edge of her tunic, and slowly edged under the fabric. _Too tempting, too welcoming, too inviting._ His breath rushed out in a hiss as his fingers carefully wrapped around the warm, bare skin at the curve of her waist, the rough pads of his thumbs gently stroking back and forth.

Even though it was _more,_ it still felt like not enough. His hands ached to reach higher - he could _just_ feel the edge of her breast band against his fingertips. And when she pressed herself tighter against him, Cullen found his resolve wavering...

But he was a man of considerable restraint, and patience. He had waited the better part of two years, and wasn’t going to crush this delicate balance between them in a moment of weakness. He slid his hands back down to her hips, smoothing the cambric back into place over her.

As her hands strayed from around his neck, moving slowly down his chest, Cullen realized that it might be _her_ determination that he should worry about. She arched her back, rocking her hips firmly into his lap, fingers still trailing lower. He knew he should stop her, but Maker’s Breath, how long had it been since he’d been touched like this?

Before all good sense left him, he clasped his hands firmly over hers.

“We shouldn’t,” he mumbled breathlessly.

Her eyes said _Why not?_ , but Ellana pulled back.

“I know…” she agreed, playfully kissing the tip of his nose. “There’s usually a layer of steel between us. But now you know your armor can protect against swords, daggers, axes, _and_ wandering hands.”

Cullen chuckled softly, as she slithered out of his lap.

“I should go, Vivienne wanted to speak to me, and Leliana as well. I have a feeling Madame de Fer may be departing soon… Josephine said that Cassandra - sorry, _Divine Victoria_ \- is beginning work on restoring the Circles and the Templar Order. I have to wonder, how many of the Inquisition’s mages might follow Vivienne back to the Circles as well?”

She rubbed at her forehead and sighed, “And what of the rest? Those who don’t wish to return to the Circles at all? Maybe we’ll get lucky and someone else will try to destroy the world. That’s a little easier to deal with.”

Cullen placed a hand on her shoulder, a comforting gesture. “You don’t have to solve every problem, you know.”

“ _I_ know that, but apparently the rest of Thedas didn’t receive the message. But, I should let you get back to work. Can’t have to leader of my armies slacking off.”

He bowed his head deferentially, a mischievous gleam in his eyes, “As you command, _Your Worship_.”

Ellana groaned loudly, “Alright, I’m leaving now… before I remind you that you’re not wearing armor and I’m _very_ good stabbing things.”

 

\--

 

 _Today is a very, very good day_ , Ellana thought.

The sun was shining. The birds were singing. The Inquisitor was smiling.

And then she had to go talk to Vivienne.

It was nice while it lasted.

Her relationship with the Iron Lady could be best described as “complicated.” They shared a common geographical background, having both grown up in the Free Marches. But any similarities ended there. A Dalish hunter and an Ostwick-born, Orlesian-made Court Enchanter were simply too different lifestyles to reconcile.

Ellana approached Vivienne’s quarters with the usual sense of trepidation. Of course, she found the enchantress perfectly groomed and elaborately garbed. Ellana always felt somewhat shabby standing next to her.

“Inquisitor, what a pleasant surprise,” she said, although Ellana thought she seemed completely _un_ surprised.

“Do have a seat,” Vivienne gestured to the elaborately carved and richly upholstered chaise longue, and then sank into one the matching armchairs situated across from it.

“I’m sure you’ve heard by now that Divine Victoria is beginning the arduous task of reforming the Circles as well as the Templar Order. While I have treasured my time serving the Inquisition, I have been offered, and accepted, a position in Val Royeaux to aid in the restoration.”

“I see,” Ellana replied. “Well, you have been a valuable ally to the Inquisition, and to me personally, as well. Your presence will be missed.”

Vivienne nodded serenely, and Ellana wondered if the formality of her tone had perhaps struck the wrong chord.

“You’re too kind, Inquisitor. I’m not particularly fond of long goodbyes, so I plan to leave within in the next week. I’m sure your duties will call you away from Skyhold again soon, so I wished to inform you while I had the opportunity.”

She rose gracefully from her seat, and extended her hand, “It has been a pleasure, Inquisitor. I wish you all the best in the future.”

Recognizing a polite dismissal when she saw one, Ellana stood and shook the mage’s hand with as much poise as she could muster.

“I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye, Vivienne but I hope you know that I have valued your council.”

And with one last nod and a vague smile, the Inquisition had again grown smaller. Unlike Cassandra’s departure, Vivienne’s left her with mixed feelings. It was to be expected, especially in the face of a more appealing position, but still, she felt a sadness that her circle of companions had further contracted.

Having descended from Vivienne’s balcony, Ellana stood in the Great Hall and paused. Cole and Varric were sitting together at the dwarf’s usual table.

She had been avoiding Cole these past months. Mercifully, he seemed to understand why. When she was happy before, when she thought she was in love, having random pronouncements of her innermost feelings wasn’t so disconcerting.

After Solas ended their relationship, she found herself drifting toward Cole, a mixture of hope and fear winding through her. Hope that there was some reason that made sense, some secret Cole would divulge that would mend her heart. Fear that perhaps there was no secret after all.

Desperation eventually got the better of her, and she took both of them on a mission. Solas had seemed surprised - she’d completely ignored him up until that point. She would take the long way through Skyhold to avoid setting foot in the rotunda, because even being in the same room with him was painful.

It had been a complete mistake. Cole blurted out her embarrassment, Solas sternly replied that it couldn’t be healed, that he needed to let it go. The last part feeling more like a reply to her…

Once Solas left, she avoided Cole entirely. He only ever wanted to _help_ , but there was nothing he could say that would. Even if he said Solas missed her, loved her, wanted her, needed her, regretted leaving her… The fact remained that he was gone.

Avoiding him had seemed the safest course that the time. She hated denying him his compassionate nature, but time was the only thing that could begin to heal her wounds.

Seeing the two of them sitting together, it seemed like it was a good time to mend fences.

And a good time to return a certain book.

She and Varric enjoyed a rather animated discussion over what does and does not qualify as “tasteful smut.” Cole hovered, his gaze darting between the two of them, as if he were watching the banter bounce back and forth like a ball.

She proffered Cole a friendly smile, which he returned, leaning in more closely to her.

“You’re happy again,” Cole said. “And he’s happy, too. _She tastes like cream and candied petals_.”

Cole paused, and stared into the distance for a moment, as a look of confusion slowly spread over his boyish features.

“But that means yours _changed_. Can everyone’s change like that? Because _he_ thought you tasted like summer ale and the sea...”

An awkward silence fell over the three of them, and Ellana felt the heat rising to her cheeks.

“The sea?” Varric said, before understanding dawned on him. He nervously cleared his throat. “ _Ah_. Uh, Kid, remember we talked about this? Some things, you’ve gotta keep private. And other things, you’ve really, _really_ gotta keep private.”

As insightful as he could seem at times, Cole was, at his core, very naive. He was like a child reading words off the page - he put together the sounds the letters made, but he didn’t always seem to understand the meaning of the story.

She just wished he wouldn’t always have to read them out loud.

Cole’s shoulders sunk low. “Oh… I’m sorry,” he replied.

“It’s alright, Cole. And I _am_ happy,” Ellana said, patting him gently on the hand. “But, I should probably go, I still need to go speak with Leliana.”

“I can help,” Cole chirped, eyes bright. “Then you won’t have to walk through there, _murals and memories_.”

She rubbed at the bridge of her nose, before forcing the smile back to her face. “That’s very nice of you to offer, Cole. Why don’t you ask Leliana to meet me in the Chantry garden?”

As Cole bounded off toward the rotunda, Ellana cast an exasperated glance at Varric.

“It’s a work-in-progress, Chestnut. Discretion is a tough thing to teach,” Varric shrugged.

 

* * *

 

 

Despite her lack of faith, Ellana had always found the Chantry Garden to be a particularly peaceful retreat. People seemed to respect the fact that it was intended to be a place of solitary reflection.

She sat down in her usual spot, a simple wooden bench next to a birch tree. The sun had just begun to set, casting out a dim reddish light. There were only a few others quietly milling about the garden, wandering around the great stones half buried within the earth, and across the sparse patches of grass.

Statues of Andraste provided a focus to those who offered prayer for grace and guidance. Her Herald found them disconcerting at first, but eventually Ellana found something appealing in their familiarity. Everything about Skyhold felt familiar now. It felt like _hers_.

She was Dalish, though. _Walkers of the lonely path_ … Always moving, always roaming. Her comfort in Skyhold was accompanied by a measure of unease, because her life was not built around permanence.

A part of her craved it, though. Was it wrong that she wanted something that she knew would stay, something that would last?

Could she have had that if she’d never been sent to the Conclave?

A husband, an aravel, a passel of children with wide eyes and wild curls. Wasn’t that always the plan? If she hadn't found it, it would’ve been arranged for her. Survival, procreation, passing on the traditions to a new generation in the vague hope that _they_ might be the ones to recapture the glory of Elvhenan. Praying that she survived childbirth, so her sons or daughters would grow up knowing their mother, as she never had. Praying for fair wind and fair weather, praying for times of plenty. Praying, always praying, to Creators who seemed to care very little for their creations.

But that life, those possibilities were beyond her. What of the life she was building now? Her friends, her advisors, her duties? Cullen?

Cullen.

 _It’s like listening to too many voices, all talking at the same time_ , she thought.

The entrance of a Nightingale in the garden saved her from further introspection.

“Good evening, Inquisitor. Do you mind if I join you?”

“Of course not,” Ellana replied, sliding over to make room for her on the bench.

“I have some good news,” Leliana began. “I’ve spoken to Mother Giselle, and she feels you are well enough to resume your duties outside of Skyhold.”

“And I assume you have some duties in mind? Not that I’m ungrateful. I sometimes think Mother Giselle forgets that I’ve already killed Corypheus, and that I’m perfectly expendable at this point.”

Leliana let out a dry laugh, “You’re hardly expendable. But, yes, I do have something in mind. I’ve had my agents continuing to collect more of the glowing shards you used to unlock the temple in the Forbidden Oasis. I’d like you to take the ones they’ve recovered and see what else you can discover there. Corypheus may be dead, but if this place was of interest to him, then obviously others will seek it out soon enough.”

The Forbidden Oasis was not high on Ellana’s list of favorite destinations. Sand and stone as far as the eye can see, blisteringly hot and dry. She could think of other no place that was more the opposite of where she’d grown up in the Free Marches.

“Alright,” she agreed.

The spymaster raised a brow, seeming to expect more of an answer, and nodded in acknowledgement.

“There is one other matter I would like to discuss. My agents have continued to search for any clues regarding Solas’s whereabout. Unfortunately, they have still not been able to discover anything.”

Ellana puffed out a harsh breath. “Leliana, if you’re still looking for him for _my_ sake… Don’t bother. You already know that the village he claimed to be from was nothing more than ruins. He lied. To what end, we don’t know. I understand if you take that personally. But as I said before, I don’t consider it a failure on your part.”

“He _lied_ ,” she repeated. “To you, to me, to everyone. If it’s of importance to the Inquisition to discover _why_ , then by all means continue. Don’t do it for me, though.”  

“As you wish, Inquisitor. Solas’s deception dealt us all a blow. Thankfully, the Inquisition still has other honest and loyal members.” The spymaster’s mouth tipped up at the corner.

“The journey to the Temple of Solasan is quite a lengthy one. I know certain members of the Inquisition will regret your absence,” Leliana continued. “But, there is comfort in knowing that they will be waiting for you when you return.”

Ellana couldn’t disagree with that.

 


	10. Left Here

“I fucking _hate_ sand,” Dorian whined.

“We _all_ hate the sand, Sparkler. Quit complaining,” Varric replied, brushing tiny grains from the intricate workings of his beloved crossbow. “Bianca’s the only one gets to complain anymore.”

It was _everywhere_ . Ellana was chafing in places that she hadn’t known could be chafed. She had forgotten just how much she hated this place. It was like breathing sandpaper, and swallowing fire. Blistering hot in the day, freezing cold at night, and the three _companions_ who groaned and bickered like children didn’t make it any more enjoyable.

“That’s it. I’m done,” she declared. “Who wants to be the new Inquisitor?”

A Tevinter, a Qunari and a dwarf glared at her. It was like the beginning of a bad joke.

They’d been riding hard for the past five days, and they still were another day out from the Temple of Solasan. Varric had been unusually quiet, Dorian’s patience had worn thin two days ago, and Iron Bull’s persistence that he could fuck the happy into Dorian had worn _everyone’s_ patience out entirely.

Leliana had given her the sack of shards, and sent her on her way with little else to go on. Many months ago, after the area had been rid of Venatori, exploring the Temple further hadn’t been a priority. While the strange, glowing skulls of the Ocularum and the tiny fragments they revealed were fascinating, they weren’t a pressing matter. Unlike a certain evil-magister-darkspawn-overlord who was bent on world destruction.

She had gathered enough pieces to open a few of the doors within the temple, but they still hadn’t discovered enough information to guess at the its purpose, save the inscription near the temple doors.

Anxiety began to well up inside of her. She must be careful, she must be safe, she must not be reckless. There was no mad rush to save the world now, and she had seen the risk that self-assurance presented. It wasn’t the risk to herself that worried her - it was the risk to her friends. Her family. Thrown together in a trial-by-fire, they trusted her with their lives.

This family wouldn’t stay with her forever. Ellana knew this. Cassandra and Vivienne were already gone. But she needed them all to be whole and safe and well when they did leave.

They had set up camp in the Western Approach, resting again for the night before making the final push toward the Oasis. Bull was setting up a tent, while Ellana worked to get a fire started before the sun set. The contrast between the suffocating heat of the day and the deep chill that came in the night had surprised her during her first visit to the desert. She had honestly looked forward to the heat back then, after months spent trekking through the Frostbacks. Snow and ice and cold, and then finally, she’d be going somewhere so _warm._  But the nights were an unpleasant surprise.

She managed to forage enough dried shrubs and craggy branches to provide light and warmth for a few hours. Dorian easily set the mass ablaze, and the four of them settled down to a meager meal of dried meat and crispbread.

Dorian’s mood had seemed to settle a bit, and Bull looked satisfied by the improvement in his demeanor. Varric, however, was still unusually quiet. He’d forgone the dried meat and crispbread, and had instead pulled a small bundle of letters from his pack. A crease settled between his brows as he read over the pages.

“Everything alright?” Ellana asked, sitting down in the sand beside him.

Varric looked up from the page, sighing. “Yeah… Well, no, not really. Hawke’s back in Kirkwall, and apparently everything is going to shit. Again. Not really surprising, but…”

“But… you wish you could do something about it,” she said.

“Yeah. I mean, Kirkwall’s a shithole. It’s always been a shithole, and probably always will be. But, it’s _my_ shithole, you know?”

Varric had been one of the first people to make her feel anything close to comfortable back in those early days at Haven. His humor and affable nature had put her at ease, and made her think that at least one person in the village didn’t see her as a tool, a criminal, or an object of worship.

But she also knew Varric had a life before the Inquisition. He had friends and he had roots.

“Is Hawke asking you to come back?” she asked hesitantly.

He sighed again, rubbing his hand over his chin. “Not in so many words… but she’s making a strong case for it.”

“I’m sure Kirkwall could use someone with deep pockets,” Ellana said with a forced grin.

Varric scoffed. “There’s worse things I could do my money, I suppose. But, don’t worry, you’re not gonna get rid of me that easily,” he said brightly, in what she knew was an attempt to reassure her.

She didn’t want him to leave, but she knew it was unfair to ask him to stay. The words stuck in her throat. Everything was shifting again, like the sand underneath her feet. More change - uncomfortable, inevitable. More goodbyes that she wasn’t ready to say, but would she _ever_ really be ready to say them?

In truth, she envied him. He had something to go back to.

“I’ll understand, Varric. Kirkwall is your home. Hawke and the others… they’re _your_ family. You’ll always have a place here, as long as the Inquisition lasts. But, no one would begrudge you wanting to return home, including me.”

Varric looked at her, bemused, before patting her gently on the knee. “Thanks, Chestnut.”

His expression shifted into a familiar smirk as he continued, “I can see why Curly likes you so much.”

Ellana groaned, “On second thought, I won’t begrudge you going back to Kirkwall… I’ll _insist_ on it.” She gave him a swift smack on the arm for good measure.

“Alright, alright!” he replied. “I guess I’ve gotten used to playing matchmaker for my friends. After Hawke and Chuckles, I’m pretty sure I could get a nug and a gurgut together. Actually, that’s not a bad analogy…”

She couldn’t help but smile in earnest.

The full night had descended upon the camp by then. The deep blackness of the sky was dotted with the familiar patterns of stars - the Maiden, the Shadow, the Oak. Their fire was beginning to die down, creating a only small sphere of illumination in the desert’s darkness.

Dorian and Bull had retired to their tent, and mercifully, decided to go to sleep. Varric went to his soon after, but Ellana spread her bedroll out onto the sand and fell asleep under the stars, next to the dying glow of the campfire.

 

~

 

Six days after they had set out from Skyhold, they arrived at the Temple of Solasan. It was much as she remembered it, minus the Venatori. She knew Corpyheus’s defeat hadn’t stamped out their threat altogether, but it was a relief to know they hadn’t easily reformed here.

Arriving at the Inquisition camp near the Oasis, everyone breathed a sigh of relief, and stripped out of their armor almost immediately. The clear, cool pools of water formed by the falls were too tempting after the long journey.

They spent the next two days placing tiny shards into the intricate configuration of impressions on the doors, revealing rooms filled with torchlight and demons.

At last, they came to the final door within the temple’s walls, and the beast that lay within - a pride demon. Bull actually grinned at the sight. Considering the fact that he found slaying dragons physically arousing, Ellana wasn’t surprised that he would display a similar enthusiasm for this particular demon.

Flinging whips of lightning, smashing its enormous fists into the stone floor, it attacked with a wanton rage. The deep, menacing laughter reverberated throughout the chamber. It was fierce, but it was also four versus one - odds that gave Ellana some measure of relief, but didn’t lessen her caution. The memory of the behemoth was still fresh in her mind.

Defeating the demon was easier than she had anticipated, though. Two years of fighting side by side, countless demons slain, they moved almost instinctually with one another. Ellana’s worry subsided as they naturally fell into the rhythm of battle - no surprises, just the four of them slowly working down a familiar enemy.

Before the Inquisition, Ellana never would have considered herself a “warrior.” She took pride in her skill as a hunter, but it was one of necessity. She wasn’t fighting battles, she was carefully stalking prey through the forests. Her kills were quick and clean, out of respect for the life of the creature whose death ensured the life of her clan.

She’d never taken a life before. She’d never killed a demon before. Her skill was primarily with the bow, but she’d practiced with daggers as a means of self-defense. They were weapons she’d never had to use, though. Clan Lavellan had a few run-ins with shems, naturally, but they maintained friendlier relationships with them than most.

Soon after joining the Inquisition, when she’d ventured out into the Hinterlands with Cassandra, Varric and Solas, it became apparent to her that the bow was not the best choice of weapon. Bianca’s wicked accuracy made a second archer impractical. She’d spoken to Cassandra, who had recommended asking Cullen about training to improve her skill with the daggers.

She remembered well the deep hesitancy she felt. Not only about approaching the stern, imposing Commander of the Inquisition’s forces, clad in plate armor and fur mantle. But killing with the bow afforded her a degree of distance from death. Fighting with daggers would be far more visceral - slashing and stabbing inches away from her enemy.

Ellana discovered quickly that although Cullen was a demanding instructor, he was also incredibly patient. He would spend hours sparring, demonstrating technique, practicing drills, with her or any other soldier, without a second thought. He wasn’t someone who only stood imperiously, barking orders. She was pleased to find her first impression was grossly mistaken.

He’d sensed her apprehension, and had sought to instill confidence. That had been a turning point for her. Up until then, she contemplated leaving and returning home to her clan on a daily basis. But Cullen had helped her to see herself in a different light - someone who could find meaning in this Inquisition they were forming. Someone who could overcome fear, to do what must be done, for the good of not just herself and her clan, but everyone. Someone who had a purpose, and would be needed.

The thought of backstabbing an eight-foot tall, horned, snarling demon that whipped chains of lightning would have been inconceivable to Ellana Lavellan, Dalish hunter. It was second nature to Inquisitor Ellana Lavellan, though.

The demon slain, they spent another day mapping and recording the contents of the temple. Dorian meticulously took notes on the various artifacts found within. If the Venatori had any plans to return there, hopefully the Inquisition would have taken with them whatever they sought, or at least would have ample information to determine what it was they were looking for.

After camping for the night, they decided to resupply at Griffon Wing Keep before starting the return journey to Skyhold. It was only a half day’s ride, and the supplies available at the Inquisition camp were limited.

Captain Rylen had made quite an impression on Ellana the last time she’d been at the Keep. Tall, handsome, direct - tattoos and a Starkhaven brogue completed the package. Word had it that his presence made Griffon Wing a surprisingly desirable posting for recruits, despite it’s arid and isolated location.

The Keep had been notified that Ellana and her companions would be in the area. Thankfully, this meant they weren’t wholly unexpected at the gates, and were quickly escorted through just before sunset.

The captain greeted them as they were dismounting from their horses at the makeshift stables.

“Inquisitor,” Rylan began, saluting her deferentially. “Your presence is an unexpected pleasure. We have little in the way of luxury to offer here, but what we do have is at your disposal. My men are arranging quarters for you as we speak.”

“We've spent nearly two weeks on horseback and camping rough in the desert. Anything you can offer would be an improvement,” Ellana replied.

His lips turned up in a grin, distorting the dark, tattooed lines beneath them. “Well, if it’s any consolation, we do have plenty of strong drink. It also has a particularly useful side effect of deadening most of your senses. A few pints, and suddenly the stink of the unwashed masses is long forgotten.”

A solider tentatively approached the pair, quickly saluting Ellana before addressing Rylen. “Sir - beds have been prepared for the Inquisitor and the other members of her party.”

“Very good, solider. Inquisitor, Corporal Morgan will escort you to your room, whenever you are ready,” Rylen said.

“Knight-Captain, I would like to send a raven to Skyhold as soon as possible, to inform them of our arrival here.”

The captain nodded, “Of course, Inquisitor. Come to my office, and we’ll send the message at once.”

The visibly nervous soldier showed Ellana to her modest quarters - one advantage of being Inquisitor was private accomodations. Bunking down in the barracks would’ve been a step up to sleeping on the desert floor, but the single bed and well-worn washstand seemed positively extravagant by comparison.

Dismissing the corporal with an encouraging smile, she quickly stripped out of her leathers and smalls. With a rough rag dipped in cool water, she slowly erased the layer of dust and grime that had settled on her skin.

She retrieved a light cotton shirt from her pack, and, after shaking out as much dust and sand as she could manage, slipped back into the leather trousers and boots. Corporal Morgan was dutifully posted outside her doorway, and escorted her through the darkness of the Keep to Knight-Captain Rylen’s office.

Despite their differences in demeanor, Rylen’s quarters reminded her much of Cullen’s. Both former Templars, there was a glaring fastidiousness in the carefully arranged piles of papers stacked on the desk, inkwells side by side, quills arranged perpendicular to them. The books were meticulously organized on the shelves, armor neatly arranged on its stand in corner, obviously polished recently. The furnishings were spartan, but tidy.

“Inquisitor,” he greeted her. “I hope you haven’t found your lodgings _too_ disappointing.”

“Not at all, Knight-Captain. But, I lived in aravels and tents for twenty years, so perhaps my standards are a bit low,” she replied with a grin.

Rylen nodded, “Aye… You know, I honestly forget sometimes that you’re Dalish. Especially without the, uh…” He made an a vague, sweeping gesture across his face.

“Yes, I suppose I sometimes forget, too,” she said with a shrug. She appreciated Rylen’s forthright nature, but that wasn’t something she really wanted to discuss any further.

Rylen seemed to sense her desire to change the subject, and quickly opened a drawer, fetching out several blank sheets of parchment.

“Right. You’ll be wanting to send that raven now,” he said, hastily arranging quill and ink, then rising from his seat to offer her a place to write the missive.

She sank down into the chair, and stared at the blank page in front of her.

Ellana had written hundreds of dispatches to Cullen before. This should be simple. Easy. Perfunctory. But, she hadn’t been in the habit of crawling into his lap and kissing him when she’d written _those_.

This wasn’t personal, though. Right? It was Inquisition business. It was informative. But, should she add something… personal? Or was that presumptuous and unprofessional? Or would he think her cold and distant if she _didn’t_?

What was she supposed to write, then? 

_Dear Cullen, We’re at Griffin Wing Keep to resupply. Leaving soon. Yours truly, Ellana. P.S. Let’s make out in your office again when I get back._

Several minutes had passed, and Ellana realized the Knight-Captain had begun to stare.

She hastily scribbled out a message, scarcely paying attention to what she wrote. Rolling the parchment into a tidy parcel, she handed it Rylen with a forced air of indifference.

“Here you are. Please ensure this gets sent to Cullen as soon as possible.”

“I’ll make sure _Cullen_ gets it right away, Inquisitor,” he replied, with extra emphasis on the Commander’s name. She knew gossip travelled fast around Skyhold, but Gods, did it spread all the way out to the Approach just as quickly? She felt a familiar heat rising to her cheeks.

Her duty done, Rylen invited her to join him in sampling the previously mentioned strong drink. He fetched a dark brown bottle and two mugs, and pulled an extra chair over to the desk. A generous serving was poured for each of them, and Ellana sighed with pleasure as the potent liquid slid down her throat with a sting.

“So… I know you and Commander Cullen knew each other before the Inquisition, when you were both Templars. How exactly did the two of you meet, though?” Ellana asked. She could scarcely believe the words had left her mouth, but curiosity got the better of her. The urge to glean a little more knowledge about Cullen, from someone who wouldn’t be there to tease her relentlessly every day, was too tempting.

“I was part of a unit of templars dispatched from Starkhaven after the Chantry in Kirkwall was blown to bits. Cullen was doing his best to hold things together after that.” He shook his head ruefully. “It was madness.”

“We were there to provide aid, keep the city and what was left of the templars in Kirkwall from falling apart. We helped the locals, and tried to put out as many fires as we could.”

He took a long drink, before carefully settling the glass back onto the surface of the desk. “After the war broke out, though, everything really went tits up. Lord Seeker lost his mind, and the Knight-Commander ordered us to join with them. Many of us refused, since we weren’t in a hurry to rebel against the Chantry we’d pledged our lives to. Cullen must’ve gotten wind of it, though - he’d joined up with the Inquisition by then. Offered us a place, and I can’t say I’ve regretted it. Accommodations are shite, but it’s a mite better than red lyrium growing out of your arse.”

Ellana couldn’t help but chuckle at this vivid mental image. “I’ve seen red lyrium growing in some interesting places… but honestly, I’ve not yet seen it growing _there._ Although I can’t say I’ve really looked. And I’m sorry to hear of your disappointment with the accomodations. I could easily arrange a transfer, perhaps to the Fallow Mire? I hear the swamps are lovely this time of year, if you enjoy the moans of the risen dead.”

Rylen burst into laughter, “No, I don’t think that’ll be necessary, Inquisitor. It’s not so bad here, really… I mean, there’s not a lot in the way of entertainment, except for drinking, fucking and gossiping. Come to think of it, you’ve only been here a few hours, and you’ve already got two out of three...” He lifted his glass to his lips, and winked.

“Careful, Knight-Captain,” she cautioned humorously. “That almost sounds like a suggestion…”

Rylen held his hands up, open palms facing out, eyebrows raised in feigned innocence. “I’d suggest nothing of the sort, Inquisitor. I fancy myself a brave man, but not a stupid one.”

He carefully poured another measure into each of their mugs, before he continued. “No, I certainly don’t regret joining the Inquisition. Didn’t really know what I was getting into, but Cullen’s a good man. Especially considering the shite hand he’s been dealt…”

Ellana nodded, “Cullen’s talked a bit about things at Kirkwall…”

“Nah, lass, even before then…” Rylen’s accent had thickened, and Ellana realized, uncomfortably, that pulling stories from a man in his cups was not the way she should go about learning more of Cullen’s life.

“Kinloch Hold… I don’t know the whole of it, he talked about it in bits and pieces...” Rylen mumbled. “That sort of thing sticks with a man, though.”

She’d heard Kinloch Hold mentioned obliquely before. She knew something bad had happened to Cullen there, but hadn’t wanted to pry.

 _I shouldn’t be listening to him talk about this_ , Ellana thought. Cullen’s past was his own. His secrets were his own. If he wanted to tell her, he would do it in his own time. If it was important to the Inquisition, she would’ve been told already.

She finished off the last of the contents of her mug, and stood. “Well, you weren’t kidding when you said the drink was strong, Rylen. I should be going, though. I don’t think riding half way across Thedas with a hangover is the most sensible idea.”

Rylen rose from his seat, with a slight wobble, and nodded. “Of course, Inquisitor.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Commander Cullen,_

 

_We have finished our exploration of the Temple of Solasan. Have taken extensive notes, acquired several relics, and defeated a pride demon in one of the last chambers. Arrived at Griffon Wing Keep today to resupply. Leaving tomorrow to begin return to Skyhold._

 

_-Inquisitor Lavellan_

 

The Commander pulled the rumpled piece of parchment out of his pocket, carefully smoothing it out as he read over it again. The raven had arrived ten days ago, and anticipation had morphed into worry. The Inquisitor and her party were now four days overdue.

Most of Skyhold had been avoiding Cullen’s increasingly foul mood. Leliana and Josephine sought to reassure him that everything was fine. They’d been delayed before, and for far longer. It could be for any one of a number of reasons, and besides, they were all more than capable of handling themselves.

This did nothing to allay Cullen’s fears, though. He’d not slept well for nearly two weeks, and the headaches that had subsided some months past had now returned with a vengeance.

He attempted to make a cup of the ginger mint tea Ellana had left for him. He’d watched her prepare it countless times. His hands shook as he opened the lid of the worn metal canister, then scooped the fragrant grey-green leaves into the small teapot a kitchen maid had filled with freshly boiled water.

 _Let it steep for five minutes,_ Ellana had told him.

He kept his breath steady, _in through the nose, out through the mouth_ , as he counted each second.

_Weak, weak, so fucking weak._

The porcelain mug chattered against the saucer, as he tried in vain to hold the pot steady while he poured. She had assured him the tea was easy to make. But it never seemed to taste the same when he did.

He felt the sheen of sweat blossom over his face, neck, shoulders. He’d taken his heavy armor off, and locked the door. The guards on duty were told he wasn’t to be disturbed unless there was news of the Inquisitor’s arrival.

_Maker, what a fool I must look. What a fool I am._

Pining after her - she who was flush with the bloom of youth. What was he thinking? Was he really going to let her tie herself down to a sad, weak, washed up man, who could offer her nothing?

“Just drink the damn tea…” he muttered aloud.

It still didn’t taste the same. But it was drinkable.

More deep breaths. Praying the sick feeling in his stomach would ebb. Praying he wouldn’t soil his boots with the remains of that morning’s meal… or whenever it was he actually last had a meal. He rubbed slow, tight circles on his left temple, trying to ease the piercing pain that built behind his eye. Squeezing them tightly closed, because any hint of light intensified the agony.

Two cups and, blessedly, the nausea had eased. He pulled the parchment out of his pocket again.

Ten days ago, they should have left Griffin Wing Keep. They had arrived there safely. His stomach sank when he’d read about the pride demon at the temple, but if any of them were injured, they would’ve stayed at Griffin Wing longer. She said they stopped to resupply, which made sense.

He knew his second-in-command would have made sure they were taken care of properly. Horses watered and fed, the party amply supplied. Rylen was capable, trustworthy. He was also blunt, and too chatty for his own good when he drank. Culled hoped he didn’t offer the Inquisitor any of that awful swill he knew they brewed in some dank corner of the keep. And, Blessed Andraste, at least let him hold his tongue if he did…

If they kept a good pace, the journey took six days. They were now four days past that point, and a fifth was swiftly approaching. Leliana had sent ravens out to the Keep, and other Inquisition bases between there and Skyhold yesterday morning. No one had yet reported seeing them.

He knew he should take an elfroot tonic for the headache. He knew he should climb up into the loft, to his bed. Instead, he crawled onto the chaise he’d left set up in the corner of the room. The grey woolen blanket she’d used was folded up under his head. When he turned to the side, he could still smell a faint trace of cypress.

_What am I doing?_

Cullen knew he’d been snapping and snarling at everyone in his path like a rabid dog. He was supposed to be a commander, lead by example. Exactly what example was he setting? Lusting after a woman nearly a decade his junior for the better part of two years, while she fell in love with someone else. The uncomfortable mixture of sadness and joy when that bastard broke her heart. Acting like a lovesick fool when she so much as looked at him now.

The sun had set hours ago. When it rose in the morning, another day would be added to the count, another layer of worry would settle over him. He knew she was strong, he knew she was capable. But he couldn’t bear the thought of losing her… not now. Not when he knew the taste of her lips and the softness of her skin and the way her nose would wrinkle and the left corner of her mouth would twitch when she read those terrible books Cassandra sent her.

Even with his eyes closed, he could feel the pulse of his heart, the sharp pain that throbbed in time with it. He focused on that feeling - it was familiar and tangible. The pain grounded him in reality, reminding him of who and what he really was. Weak. Feeble. She would deny it, of course. She would tell him he was strong, she would tell him he was brave. She would look at him like a knight in shining armor, and he would almost believe her.

There was a sharp knock at the door.

Cullen scrambled off of the chaise, and jerked the door open.

The soldier snapped to attention, crossing his arm stiffly over his chest. “Commander, the Inquisitor and her party are approaching the bridge.”

_Thank the Maker._

“Thank you, lieutenant,” he replied before quickly shutting the door. Cullen knew he looked like a mess. Hoisting the heavy plate armor from its stand, he dressed himself as swiftly as possible, fingers fumbling with the clasps. He thought he could at least try to _look_ the like Commander of her forces.

As he descended the stairs from his tower, he could hear the flurry of activity at the gates - horses, footsteps, voices. _Shouting?_

They were in the stables when he saw her. She looked tired. But she was whole and safe and alive and _he,_ too, was whole now.

“If never have to look at the back of your insufferable little head, it will still be too fucking soon!” Dorian shouted.

“Yeah, I love you, too, Sparkler. You really ought to thank the Inquisitor, because I would’ve made your ass walk back,” Varric replied.

“Make me walk back when it’s _your_ fault my horse is dead in the first place?” Dorian bellowed indignantly.

“ _My_ fault? How is it _my_ fault that your horse slipped down the side of a hill and broke its leg? Maybe it got tired of listening to you _moaning_ every Maker damned night and decided to put itself out of its misery.”

“Alright! Enough! _Fen’harel ver na…_ Both of you, _please_ , shut up. Go away. Go to bed. Go someplace that is _not_ here. And kindly avoid me for at least the next week,” Ellana snapped.

Iron Bull was nowhere to be seen - wisely, he had made a hasty exit. Dorian stalked off, not even acknowledging Cullen, muttering angrily to himself.

Varric shuffled along behind Dorian, shaking his head in disbelief. He gave Cullen a tired smile as he passed, and patted him on the arm.

“She’s pretty wound up, Curly. Good luck.”

Ellana rolled her eyes, “Keep walking, Tethras.”

Her expression softened as she slowly walked over to Cullen. Every step was laced with exhaustion and frustration.

“Hello,” she mumbled, as she wrapped her arms around his waist and leaned her head heavily onto his chest. Cullen still hadn’t spoken a word - he stood stiffly, staring at her as if she were a ghost.

Ellana pressed her face against the cold metal of his armor, and sighed. Apparently all the men in her life were determined to be uncooperative. She reached down and grasped one of Cullen’s hands, pulling it around to rest on her back, then repeated the gesture again with his other hand.

“This is where you tell me you’re glad to see me, Commander,” she instructed.

Cullen laced his arms tightly around her now, pressing his lips to the top of her head, as she sighed contentedly.

“You’re here,” he whispered.

“And you’re armored,” she replied, rapping her knuckles lightly against the heavy plate mail. “So, you can either take it off, or you can ignore the gawking stable boy and kiss me properly.”

Cullen’s eyes darted to the young groom brushing down Ellana’s horse - he _was_ staring…

She turned her face up to look at him expectantly, lips pursed - _waiting_.

He was weak and he was worthless, but he was in love.

 


	11. Salt From My Lips

Ellana was perched on the counter in Skyhold’s kitchen, watching Sera flurry about in a cloud of flour and sugar and cinnamon. She’d slept through most of the day, and when she eventually crawled out of her bed late in the evening, Sera had been waiting to drag her off to her next mission - baking cookies.

“So…” Sera began, eyeing her warily. 

“So…?” Ellana replied.

“What’s goin’ on with you and Commander Tightarse? Him and that rug he wears were barking at everyone while you were off traipsing around the desert. He was acting like a right tit… So, what’s with that? Are you two…  _ ya know? _ Knockin’ boots? Pressing dangly parts? Rubbing the fun bits? Knobbing? Humping?  _ Friggin’? _ ”

“What…  _ What is wrong with you?  _ You ask me to help you bake cookies, and now you’re talking about “pressing dangly parts.” Really?”

Sera resumed stirring the dough with vigor, a spray of flour poofing up out of the bowl. “Oh, come on. You’re an  _ elfy _ elf. You lot get up to  _ all _ sorts. Like, the  _ weird _ stuff. Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talkin’ about. And you know… you’re alright. And he’s alright, I guess. So, whatever… You two’d be alright together.” 

Ellana was dumbstruck. 

“We’re not…  _ friggin’. _ ” 

“Why not? I mean, he’s not my type… you know,  _ parts _ and all. But, I mean, he’s the sort your type goes for, right? Big and muscley and he’s got that scar I heard this one healer talking about like she was gonna piss herself just lookin’ at it. His dangly bits are probably pretty dangly... And everyone saw you suckin’ his face off last night, so c’mon. Why not?” 

Ellana buried her face in her hands and groaned. “Sera,  _ why _ are you doing this?” 

She stared down into the bowl of dough, her face as near a thoughtful expression as Ellana had ever seen it. 

“Well, I thought you were gonna be a real prat at first… but you’re not. So, what? That’s what people are supposed to  _ do _ . Get in love, and hump, and make babies or whatever. Coryphetit’s dead, and fuckface finally left. Good thing that, because  _ those _ babies would’ve been ugly as all… I mean, you’re  _ fit _ , but him… Ugh. Anyway, Cully Wully’s got all that hair and smoldering and manly manliness, so yeah, good ingredients for your cookies.”

Sera dug out a scoop of dough from the bowl and shoved it into her mouth. “And I guess I want you to be happy and shite. Besides, you’re not as much fun when you’re not getting any.”

There was never a dull moment with her friend. Ellana had never met anyone whose mind jumped between topics at such a dizzying rate. From baking cookies, to what passed for relationship advice, to… “cookies”? She wasn’t sure how to respond. 

Ellana knew Sera had a good heart. She didn’t always make it easy to see, and she could be… abrasive. Blunt. Crass. But she cared. And she looked out for her own. She was a protector, she was a defender. Ellana was touched that, in her own quirky way, Sera was trying to nudge her toward something like a happy ending. 

“Let me help,” Ellana offered, pulling small bits of dough from the mass Sera had turned out onto the counter. They stood side-by-side, carefully rolling uniformly round little spheres.

“Balls,” Sera snickered. 

Ellana elbowed her, and giggled along. “So what kind are these? The ones that get rolled in cinnamon sugar?” 

“Yup,” she replied, enunciating the “p” with a loud pop of her lips. “Your  _ favorite _ . Because I’m just that nice, yeah? So, come oooon… Tightarse. Spill it.” 

“Yes, you  _ are _ nice. And nosy and pushy…” Ellana shrugged. “We’re… well, we really  _ aren’t _ whatever it was you said with dangly parts. I don’t know. It’s nice.  _ Nice _ nice. And strange. And new. And… what else do you want to know?”

“I wanna know what you’re  _ doing  _ about it. I want  _ details _ . You read all those stupid books! Heaving bosoms and  _ squish _ and moaning! No squish, fine, but what about heaving bosoms? You’ve got nice ones. And he looks like he’d be pretty handsy.” 

This was one of the strangest conversations Ellana had ever had. She’d heard girls and women in her clan gossiping about their… activities before. But she had rarely participated in those discussions. She wasn’t exactly embarrassed, but more overcome by a sense that discussing it out loud might somehow jinx things. 

“Well, you know that we’ve  _ kissed. _ And apparently  _ everyone _ else does, too, according to you. It’s… slow. But, good slow? I guess. It’s all been… over the clothes. Gods, I feel so stupid saying this out loud.” 

“Kissing? That’s  _ it?  _ He hasn’t even copped a feel?” Sera blurted out. 

“Well, he started to! And I started to… but, we stopped. Because we don’t want to rush. And… after everything with Solas-”

“Pfft,” Sera interrupted. “Nah, that’s shite. You’re makin’ excuses. Listen, he’s just happy Egghead’s gone, ‘cause he’s wanted to jump your bones since forever. And you… you’re just being  _ stupid _ . Get on with it! Don’t be all “Oh no, I’m Miss Prissy Pants, let’s take it slooooow.” Fuck that! Whip your tits out and be like,  _ yeah.  _ He’s gotta wanna see ‘em. I mean, _ I  _ do. Dorian’s seen ‘em, but he doesn’t know the difference, so asking him was useless.” 

Sera tucked the trays into the oven, cinnamon-sugar coated “balls” arranged in orderly rows upon them. 

“Alright,  _ fine. _ I’ll help.”

“You’ll help with what…?” Ellana asked, puzzled by the latest non-sequitur. 

“Help you  _ get it _ . Him. It. Some.  _ It _ it. Then you two can be all tra-la-la and stuff. Right? Right. So, tomorrow night, get him to the Herald’s Rest, table upstairs, couple of drinks, moonlight, smoochy smooch. Ooh! Yeah, Maryden’s got the stuff! Get you all tarted up, ya know? And wear something low. Shove ‘em up, smoosh ‘em together. He’ll drool like one of those stupid mabari’s he’s always goin’ on about.” 

The kitchen was filled with a tempting aroma, and the sounds of Sera planning what she imagined to be a “dream date.” Despite the abundance of vulgur euphemisms, Ellana really did think it was very sweet. 

After the cookies were baked, and Sera offered incredibly detailed instructions on how to best display her “assets,” Ellana return to her quarters. Sera insisted she needed a good night’s rest, and that everything would be arranged. All she had to do was show up tomorrow night. 

Ellana wasn’t sure what she’d gotten herself into… But Sera had seemed so enthusiastic that she didn’t have the heart to say no. 

  
  


* * *

 

 

“Oi, Tightpants. C’mon. Time to go.” 

Sera barged into Cullen’s office, barking out instructions like she had been expected all along. 

“Don’t you know how to knock? And I’m not going anywhere. Some of us have work to do…” he replied testily, gesturing at his desk. 

“You’ve got somethin’ to  _ do _ , alright…” Sera giggled madly. “Just come on… Goin’ to the pub. Now. Drinks and stuff.”

“Someone’s waaaiting for you…” she said in a sing-song voice. 

Cullen did not have the patience for Sera’s cryptic speeches tonight. Ellana had returned. So had his headache. She’d come by his office that morning and left a note, but he had been running drills with the soldiers. He’d stopped by her quarters later on, but she wasn’t there. He felt like he had barely seen her again since she had returned to Skyhold. 

But, he was curious, and hopeful, about who Sera’s “someone” was… Cullen knew she liked to play pranks, but she also genuinely seemed to have a soft spot for the Inquisitor.

“Fine,” he said, pulling on his fur mantle over his shoulders. 

“Ew. No. Not that. And take off the tin can. Oh, and change yer shirt, yeah,” Sera commanded. 

Cullen had never given his sartorial choices much thought, but decided it would probably just be easier to do as he was told. He placed the armor back onto its stand, and pulled off his shirt, ignoring Sera’s catcalling. Freshly attired for… whatever the occasion was, he presented himself for inspection. 

Sera looked him up and down, and shrugged. “Eh, that’ll do.”

He was practically frogmarched from the room, across Skyhold, and pushed through the door of the Herald’s Rest by her. It was still early in the night, and the pub was fairly empty. A few patrons had settled down at the bar and the tables. Maryden had taken up her usual station in the center of the room next to the fireplace, idly plucking at her lute and humming along.

“Upstairs. Go on,” Sera nudged him in the small of his back. “Do  _ all _ the things I wouldn’t do, alright?”

Cullen shook his head with irritation, but followed orders once again, walking up to the second floor of the tavern. 

She was there, at a corner table… conveniently on the other side of the wall from Sera’s quarters. Blue linen and dark curls, two glasses of wine, a smile only for him, candles all over the table - someone’s idea of romantic, his idea of a fire hazard. But she glowed in the light, and he supposed he ought to thank Sera once all was said and done. 

“I was beginning to worry Sera wouldn’t be able to drag you away from your desk. She was  _ very _ determined, though,” Ellana said as he approached the table. 

He sat down in the chair across from her, and he didn’t think he’d felt this nervous in a very, very long time. They’d had drinks together. They’d spent time together. They’d been alone together. But this felt very…  _ arranged. _ Intentional. Public. 

“Well, I wasn’t given much notice, or I wouldn’t have kept you waiting. She just… barged in ten minutes ago and told me to change and pushed me out the door.” 

Ellana covered her hand over her mouth, trying to stifle her laughter. Cullen found it strangely appealing, the contrast between the demure gesture and the strength those hands wielded.

She never “flashed” a smile - her lips moved in a careful path of their motion he could follow with his eyes, curving upward, teeth coming to rest lightly on her lower lip. It was a singular pleasure to witness.

“Really?” she replied. “Sera started on me last night. Thankfully I was able to talk her out of letting Maryden “tart me up.” Maybe she was late getting to you because we spent two hours arguing on what I would wear…” 

“Well… you look lovely,” Cullen said.

_ Lovely? Really, that’s the best you can do? Gorgeous, beautiful, stunning, breathtaking, exquisite, magnificent… and you chose  _ lovely.

“Thank you. It was an exercise in compromise. Sera liked blue, and I liked not being half-naked.” 

They both sipped at their wine, and Ellana began to tell him the meandering tale of their delay returning from Griffin Wing Keep. They were initially held up in a massive rainstorm somewhere in the middle of the Dales. Holed up in their tents, taking shelter in a copse of trees, the four of them desperately tried to stay as dry as possible. Once the storm had passed, they began making slow, soggy progress back toward Skyhold again... until Dorian’s horse slid coming down an embankment. He was tossed from his mount, but unharmed save a few bumps and bruises. Unfortunately, the horse broke a leg, and Ellana had to put the poor creature out of its misery. 

She gave a small, sad sigh when recounting the last detail. Putting a horse down wasn’t an especially pleasant task, no matter how much battle one had seen, Cullen thought. His hand crept across the table toward hers, and to his relief, she slid her fingers into his. 

“Then, we had a problem… we were still at least two days ride from Skyhold, in the middle of nowhere. Three horses, four people. Bull’s mount can just manage to hold his weight, so we decided Dorian could swap between Varric and I and we wouldn’t wear either our horses out too quickly. Actually, I offered Dorian my horse, and said that I would switch riding with both of them. But, apparently he decided to have a rare moment of chivalry…”

“I’m sure how you can imagine how the two of them got on… We were tired and damp and dirty. Dorian was whining about the indignity of it all, and Varric was antagonizing him masterfully.”

“I decided against leaving them both in a ditch, obviously,” she said with a shrug. Ellana drained the last of her glass of wine, and Cullen refilled it, his sleeve passing perilously close over candle flame.

“I think Iron Bull would’ve corroborated your story had you decided to,” Cullen said with a smirk. 

“I’ll keep that in mind for the future,” she replied. “...So, how were things here while I was gone?” 

He could see it was an attempt at nonchalance, her expression neutral, tilting the glass back and forth in her hand. But, she was biting at her bottom lip… Her tell.  _ Sera _ .

What was he supposed to say - the truth?  _ I was miserable and thought you were probably dead. I overreacted and stomped around like a complete arse. I holed up in my room shaking like an old man and nearly vomiting - but I drank the tea, because a cup full of hot water and dried leaves reminded me of you.  _

He settled on a lie instead - “Things were… unremarkable. Much the same as always.” 

She pulled her hand away from his and it hurt, but he knew she didn’t need his smothering, uncomfortable truth.

“You looked tired the night I returned,” she said, her voice colder.

The wine was too sweet, there were too many flames pulsing in his periphery, and too much frustration had washed over her face for his liking. He rubbed at the back of his neck -  _ his _ tell. 

The truth it was to be, then.

“I was tired. ” Cullen said. “And I was worried. And as Sera probably already told you, I was less than pleasant to be around.”

“But I’ve been delayed before.  _ Many _ times,” Ellana insisted. 

“I know. And I worried then, too.”

Every time. When he was the one who sent her into harm’s way. When she wasn’t his to worry over.

Her hand squeezed his a little tighter, and he swore that even in the dim light he could see her blush.

“Then I suppose I’ll have to try harder to be on time,” she teased. “Although, you’re lucky I made it out of Griffin Wing Keep at all. I meant to discuss this with you actually,  _ Commander _ . Are you aware of that awful stuff they’re brewing over there?”

“Maker, don’t tell me Rylen tried to get you to drink that…” Cullen scoffed.  _ And, Andraste preserve me, how much had that Marcher fool had to drink himself? _

Ellana opened her mouth to reply, when there was a loud thud against the wooden boards of the wall behind her.

“Did you hear that?” Cullen asked

She leaned close in to him, whispering, “I think we have company.”

Ellana could hear muffled voices from the other side of the panels.  _ “Be quiet! I can’t hear anything...” _

She held a finger to her lips, and rose gingerly from her chair. Tiptoeing away from the table, she motioned for Cullen to follow her. He tried to match her silent steps, but the worn floorboards creaked underfoot. They crept up the steps to the third floor of the Rest, and escaped through the entrance to an empty tower room. 

Cullen closed the door behind him, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. It was one of the room’s that had still not been moved into - a drafty space, much like his. Basic repairs had been made to the stonework, to ensure it was structurally sound. A few crates and some old furniture had been stowed in the corners of the room.

Scant moonlight shone through the windows. She stood with her back toward him, pulling a dusty sheet off of one of one piece - a hideous sofa, covered in maroon brocade that had obviously seen better days. Stretching herself across the cushions, she looked over at him with expectantly. 

He sat beside her, and marveled. Her hair draped over her shoulder, dark lashes shadowing her eyes. He felt her shiver in the cold as she curled her arm into his, and he regretted not wearing his mantle. 

It was quiet. They were alone. Her lips parted ever so slightly, flushed and full. He leaned in to taste. She opened her mouth wider against his, welcoming, but quickly becoming more insistent. He felt her moving closer and,  _ Maker _ … In his lap like weeks ago, but legs spread, sitting astride him.

It was a familiar situation - one he had stepped back from once already. Not a tunic this time, but a dress. Thin and delicate and the color of the sky. His hands begged to slide again. Not the curve of her waist, but the smooth skin of her thighs. A sea of blue creeping higher, revealing, urging him forward like the pull of the tide. 

He didn’t want her in a cold, dark corner, on tatty, old furniture. But he couldn’t ignore the stroke of her hands against his face, the press of her lips against his, the cant of her hips into him… He could feel himself growing hard, laces straining, and knew he should feel shame that his body betrayed him. She moved against him again, a soft moan escaping her lips. 

Care and shame had fled him, replaced only by desire. His hands moved higher, gripping her hips, pushing his body into hers more firmly, and she moaned again. Breaths and sighs - music from her lips. 

His thumbs slipped just under the edge of her smalls. He could feel the warmth of her core, even through the layers of fabric separating them, sliding up and down along the length of him. Her lips fell away from his as he matched the rhythm of her motions, and her breathing turned to soft panting.

He shifted one hand onto the small of her back, holding himself tight against her, while the other slipped further under the dress. Now came the small of her waist, where he’d stopped last time… but there was no band of fabric to obstruct his touch. His fingers traced along the velvet-soft skin beneath the curve of her breast.

“Is this…?” he questioned.

_ “Yes,” _ she whined, a crescendo. His world had narrowed - only himself and  _ her _ . Only this maddening friction and the desperate need to swallow every sound from her lips. To keep them, capture them, to make it a song sung only for him. 

Still not close enough, fast enough, hard enough. _ She is perfection _ \- he wondered why he should be allowed to touch something so precious and so dear. 

A gasp, a tremor, her head fell back and she sighed his name as his thumb brushed across the small, hard peak of her breast. He watched her intently, mesmerized that his touch had brought forth such sounds.  _ His  _ name, from her lips, breathless and beautiful, as she stilled. He couldn’t understand how this had happened, how fate had twisted around on itself and somehow made this real. 

Watching her unravel, feeling her arms wrapped around his neck, he moved more urgently now, desperate to join her in release. 

Her fingers curled into his hair, and her lips skimmed along his ear as she leaned close, “Your turn now.” He worried he was pushing too hard, but her whispered encouragement spurred him on. 

_ “Fuck,”  _ he shouted as he came, the sinuous movement of her hips milking every last drop of pleasure from him.

Heads touching, noses brushed against one another, the sharp pants of his breath punctuated the air. She pressed her mouth to his again, tongue teasing, before releasing him and leaning back. 

Again the slow curl of her lips, and her eyes -  _ this _ was the most beautiful blue.  _ This  _ was the most beautiful song.  _ This _ was the deepest need he would ever feel again. Lyrium paled in this moment, and he was overwhelmed by what a frightening prospect that was. 

Lyrium was a gnawing, a whisper, a vial. But she? She could be bent and she could be broken and she could be taken away. 

He felt tears prick his eyes as he stared into hers. The curve of her lips fell, and her fingers, warm and strong and gentle, brushed along his jaw. 

“Is something wrong?” Ellana asked.

He sighed, leaning his forehead back against hers, pressing his hands over hers.  

“ _ No. _ No. You are…  _ nothing _ is wrong.” 

Stillness and silence and everything within him was tamed.

She tilted her head down and touched just above his lip, kissing the line of his scar.

_ Kirkwall. Old days, old dreams, old scars. _

She skimmed her lips along it again, turning the old pain into new pleasure. He wasn’t the man in those memories anymore. Her hands smoothed across his chest, painting over the darkness and the flaws. 

Slowly moving away from his lap, she sat back onto the sofa beside him.

_ What now? _

He wished he could scoop her on to his chest, lie back on the dingy upholstery and fall asleep - the weight of regret and repentance replaced with the weight of her body spread across his. He wished he could blanket himself in her warmth and sleep without dreaming. 

But Ellana pointed out a more pressing concern, fumbling over her words as she suggested they might like to slip across the battlements to his quarters so he could “clean up.” 

The guards were absent, and they were able to sneak across unnoticed. Cullen climbed the ladder to his bed, while Ellana curled up onto the chaise. 

He quickly stripped off his shirt and trousers, wiping the sticky spend from his body with a towel. Cullen breathed a heavy sigh - he felt like he was sixteen again. But that time had been fumbling and awkward, neither of them having a clue what they were doing. Tonight had been anything but… They had moved with purpose, and he refused to let himself feel guilty about that. 

She had crawled into his lap and she pulled him forth with her. She had sighed his name and he was  _ happy. _

He climbed down onto the ladder, and he saw she had spread the grey blanket back across herself again. The memento he’d kept tucked under his head for days now back where it belonged. 

Cullen slid onto the worn leather behind her, and she leaned her head against his shoulder. He brushed his fingers through the tangled waves of her hair, feeling only slightly guilty they they’d been disheveled. She looked up at him and idly plucked at a strand of his own hair. 

“I know about  _ this _ , you know…” she said cryptically. 

“About what?” Cullen asked, utterly confused.

“I found the little tin on your desk once. Oakmoss and elderflower.  _ Orlesian _ ,” she smirked. “But, I promise I won’t tell. You can trust me with your secret.”

He kissed her - sweetly, gently, wholeheartedly. 

“I know I can.”

 


	12. Together

The sun was shining. The birds were chirping. His dearest friend was sleeping soundly. It was all terribly boring.

Dorian nudged her impatiently. “Time to wake up, darling Ell.”

She rolled over mumbling sleepily, “Don’t wanna…”

“While I’m ever so pleased that Our Dear Commander has exhausted you properly, I’m also quite impatient to hear the details. So, _wake up.”_ As he said the last words, he yanked the blankets off of her.

She groaned, and threw a pillow at him.

 _Well, that was quite uncalled for,_ he thought.

He glanced over the pleasing form of his friend, scantily clad in a thin nightgown, spread out luxuriantly across the mattress. Objectively, he knew Ellana was attractive. Slender and lithe, as those of her race tended to be. Small waist, just enough curve at her hips and bust to reinforce her femininity. Smooth, lightly tanned skin, a sprinkling of freckles across her high cheekbones. Full lips, long glossy curls, piercing blue eyes, when they were open.

Dorian knew that in Tevinter, she would be a _prize_. He also knew precisely what end would be in store for a pretty, young elf like her. It made him sick to his stomach. Some filthy, lecherous magister, parading her around, pawing all over her. And she would be helpless to do anything about it, resigned to her fate as a plaything and bed warmer.

And wasn’t he complicit in that system? His family owned slaves. He could rationalize all he liked - that they weren’t beaten, that they weren’t taken advantage of in “that way”, that they were well-fed and clothed and sheltered.

But this woman, this person, this elf, who had become his dearest friend - how would he have treated her at home? He would have _assumed_ . He wouldn’t have gotten to know what a brave, loyal, generous spirit she had. He wouldn’t have met someone who accepted him for who he was, unconditionally, from the very start. He would have brushed her off as _just another slave_. He would’ve sickened, and sneered, and made snide comments when the old lecher pulled her into his lap. But he would’ve done precisely _nothing_ to stop it.

Staring at her, surly and sleep-mussed, Dorian lamented his inaction. She was wonderful, and beautiful. She had stood behind him and given him strength and support even when, really, she hardly knew him. She had learned his “shameful secret,” and did not see something perverse and broken. She didn’t bat a fucking eyelash.

Dorian kicked off his shoes, crawled in next to her, and pulled the blankets up over them both. This was another change she had wrought - this _physicality_ . Touch was not something he’d been comfortable with before. Touch was reserved for those private, hidden moments - touch was sweaty and detached and washed off in the morning. Kisses and snuggles and all of those disgusting displays of affection were not reserved for the likes of him. But she’d pulled him in to her one day, and he had just… _stayed_.

He had learned the comfort of another person next to him, no fear of discovery, no expectation. He had learned to trust. And so they’d both opened up - kindred souls, hearing in one another the same whispers of loneliness.

He had led a selfish existence in many ways, but here she was - someone he would fight for, and if push came to shove, someone he would die for. An _elf._

_And I am a hypocrite._

She rolled over into him, a sleepy smile pasted on her face. “Good morning.”

 _“Talk,”_ he demanded.

Her smile broadened. That boded well. That was the _good_ smile. The _satisfied_ smile. The “I’m going to tell my best friend _all_ the details” smile. And Our Dear Commander made for a considerably more pleasant mental image than The Hobo Apostate.

“Mmm…” she hummed noncommittally. “Well… it was nice.”

“No, a fresh pair of socks is _nice._ A glass of warm glass of milk is _nice_. A clean set of sheets is _nice_. Now, did the two of you get up to something more than _nice?_ ”

Ellana pulled the blankets over her face. “Yeeeees…” she said in a muffled voice.

 _“Talk,”_ he demanded, yet again.

She pulled the bedding down, only her eyes peeking over the edge. Crinkled around the corners, so he _knew_ she was grinning underneath.

“Well, we had drinks at the Herald’s Rest… until we were quite _rudely_ interrupted. I’m sure you don’t know _anything_ about that, though.”

“I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he replied, deadpan. Of course, he _did_ know precisely what she was talking about. And he wouldn’t have to be pestering her for so many details if Sera hadn’t shoved him out of the way and made a racket.

“We made a hasty retreat upstairs, and into that empty little tower room… And… _things_ happened.”

Dorian’s patience was fleeting. “Ell… Ellana… Herald of Andraste… Great and Powerful Leader of the Inquisition… Please just _get to the fucking point._ Emphasis on the fucking.”

“Well, we didn’t do _that!”_ she insisted.

Dorian flopped over onto his back and groaned loudly, “Are you kidding me?! _Festis bei umo canavarum…_ ”

“But… we did… _other_ things. Mutually gratifying things. “Our Dear Commander needed a change of trousers” things.”

Dorian suddenly sat bolt upright and stared down at her, wide eyes gleaming. “Now _that_ is promising. _Mutually_ satisfying, you say?”

Ellana’s lips spread into a smirk, “Yes.”

“Well, no wonder you seem so… _unclenched_ this morning,” Dorian quipped. “I still don’t understand why you both haven’t got fed up and ravaged each other… But, I am pleased with your progress nonetheless.”

He was promptly thwacked in the face with another pillow.

“Well, we can’t all spend our days ravaging and being ravaged…”

Dorian rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes, my sexual exploits are legion,” he replied testily. “Moving on…”

“How are things with you and Bull?” she asked. _Of course she’s not going to let me off the hook so easily…_

“I know you prefer to force me to overshare, rather than share yourself…” Ellana continued. “But, come on. You usually grin like the cat who ate the canary, and make some witty retort. It’s obvious everything’s _not_ alright.”

No, everything was not “alright.” It wasn't  _bad_. But, it was beginning to feel like things had run their course, he supposed. Neither Dorian nor Bull were the same people as when they’d met. The driving purpose that had been pushing the Inquisition along had made it easy to ignore the weaknesses in their... _relationship_. These past months had pulled the curtain away, and in the stark light of day, Dorian had begun to feel that there wasn’t much beyond their physical intimacy holding them together.

“You’ve got me in bed with you, and now you want me to talk about my _feelings?_ Maker, is this what you do with Cullen? No wonder things are taking so long…”

She _looked_ at him. _Fasta vass_ , it was the serious look. The concerned look. The “I’m going to make my friend talk about his emotions if it kills him” look. He _hated_ that look.

“Fine,” he said. “Things are just a bit awkward at the moment. Oh, I don’t know. I don’t really even know what he wants. It was a lot easier before. There were strings, but they weren’t quite so… attached.”

“Is _attached_ really so bad?” she asked.

“No,” he quickly replied, before pausing. “Yes? I don’t know, Ell. I suppose I see now that I can have something beyond hushed liaisons, since you insisted I divest myself of all that wonderful self-loathing. But where is this thing with Bull really going to go? Am I to join his merry band of mercenaries, and tag along on their adventures? Or am I to stroll into Minrathous with my Qunari lover on my arm?”

She quietly slipped her hand into Dorian’s, leaning her head onto his shoulder. “I’m sorry that there’s not any easy answer. But, maybe it’s time to take a step back. Tell Bull you need some space. See how you both feel, and go from there.”

 _Confrontation_. The word stuck on Dorian’s tongue with a foul taste. He could fling barbs and insults without a second thought. But, actual confrontation… There was so much talking, and _sharing_.

She was right, though. He nodded.

And this was another reason why he considered her friendship so dear. She knew when to nudge, just enough to help remind him “this is what friends do.”

They laid next to one another in warmth and silence. He would miss this. These halcyon days would end soon enough, he knew, and this is what he would miss the most. She was _his_ friend. When Solas left, he had selfishly relished no longer having to share her with someone else. He hated the price that had cost, so the delight was bittersweet. He wanted his friend to be happy more than he wanted her attention for himself.

He liked Cullen, though. And he loved her.

_If only they would hurry the fuck up..._

  


* * *

 

  


Cullen was bent over at his desk when she quietly slipped into his office. But instead of the usual stacks of papers, he was staring intently at a small book. His brow was furrowed in deep concentration. She could see his lips move every now and again, softly mumbling words from the page.

“Am I interrupting?” Ellana asked.

Cullen looked up at her, startled, quickly snapping the book shut and covering it with his hand.

“ _Oh._ Hello. Uh… No. No, not at all. Please come in.” He slipped the book under a stack of parchment as she walked across the room toward him.

“Were you reading?” she asked, casually peering over his shoulder.

“Yes…” Cullen replied hesitantly

She ran her fingers teasingly through his hair, and heard him sigh as he gently pressed his head back into her hands. “Something _good_ , then?”

“You’re going to keep asking about it until I tell you, aren’t you?”

She slid her hands down on to rest on his shoulders, and leaned her cheek next to his. “Yes,” she said, giving him a quick peck on the cheek.

He sighed once again, slid the book out from under the papers, and handed it to her without a word.

It was small, bound in dark red leather, with the title embossed into the aged surface: _A Dalish Primer: Basic Vocabulary of the Elvish Language_ by Sister Maeve.

_Oh._

She ran her fingers gently over the surface of the book, and for a moment she forgot to breathe.

Deep inside her chest, it _ached._ Not just some emotion that people described as such, when they wished to talk about love or longing or heartbreak. It was a real, physical sensation within her.

Cullen cleared his throat. _“On dhea,”_ he said to her, shyly.

 _Shyly._ This grown man, strong and battle-hardened and leading an army - how can he look at her so bashfully and boyishly?

 _“On dhea.”_ she replied. _“Thu ea?”_

“Ah… _Ame son, i na?”_

 _“Ame son’ala, emma serranas,”_ she smiled, gently touching her lips to his. _“Na dirthas vi'dirth'ma'vhen'an.”_

“Ehh… Um… _Sathan dirtha felas’el,”_ he sputtered.

She tucked herself into his lap and kissed him again, with every ounce of feeling she could summon. It didn’t matter who walked in on them, the entire fucking Inquisition could pull up a chair and watch for all she cared. She would kiss this wonderfully, achingly sweet man until he understood how much he meant to her. Because she couldn’t possibly find those words yet.

“Maker, was it that bad?” he asked.

“No. It was perfect.”

And it really was, to her ears. She had spent years changing and bending and learning and adapting to ”their” world. She had let someone who professed to love her wash away the most visible symbol of her history and her culture. Cullen hadn’t just picked up a tatty little book and sputtered out a few bits of Elven. He’d seen her, he’d come to know her, and he hadn’t found her wanting. No, he’d found himself wanting, and so he picked up a tatty little book and tried his damndest to learn the language of her heart.

“I wanted to ask you something, actually…” Cullen continued. “The Inquisition has some dealings in Ferelden that require my attention. I wondered if you’d like to accompany me.”

He was just full of surprises today.

“Would this be… just the two of us?” she asked.

“Yes.”

There was the ache again.

“These “dealings”... Is it something important?” Neither Leliana nor Josephine had mentioned any urgent business to her.

“No... I mean, _yes_. But… Well, I would rather explain when we arrive. If you wish to come, that is… ”

Cullen seemed reluctant to offer more explanation. And she still hadn’t answered him.

“Of course I want to come,” she said, picking up the book from his desk. “And on the way there, I can teach you all of the really good words that were too scandalous for Sister Maeve.”

  


\--

  


She had purchased them from a boutique in Val Royeaux, the storefront plain and unassuming from the outside. But inside, a treasure trove of lace and satin…. and leather. The Orlesians were creative, she couldn’t deny. The breast band was purely decorative, but she wasn’t exactly amply endowed. The translucent, pale blue silk left little to the imagination, and pairs of ribbons tied at each shoulder. Another pair of thin ribbons laced up the front, while the edges of the band were trimmed in delicate lace. The smalls were… _small._ More wishful thinking than functional garment. Figured in the same lacework as adorned the breast band, they covered only the barest fraction in the front, and practically nothing in the back.

She’d worn them only once.

It had been late, very late, but she knew Solas was barely sleeping those days. She’d slipped on the flimsy undergarments, and then covered herself in her robe. She thought he would appreciate that - unassuming from the outside, but underneath a delight only for his eyes.

He was awake. His desk covered in dusty tomes, he was poring over a thick volume, bound in cracked, ancient leather. He hadn’t even noticed her enter the rotunda, but she sauntered across the room, a playful smile on her lips.

“Solas…” she’d said, leaning against his desk.

“Hmm…” he mumbled, never taking his eyes off of the book in front of him.

She untied the robe, and let it hang open. He still didn’t look up.

 _“Vhenan…”_ she’d said seductively.

When he finally did look up, his face was laden with irritation. His eyes cast over her, looking her up and down, then he’d just _sighed_.

 _“Ir abelas, vhenan…_ But I really must-”

“Of course,” she interrupted, hastily pulling the robe about her, working to keep her hands steady as she tied the belt around it. “I’ll leave you to your work.”

She turned and left, forcing herself to take measured, even steps out of the room and up the stairs. She’d been tempted to throw the lingerie in the fire. But instead she had just peeled them off, wadded them into a ball, and shoved them in the corner of a drawer to be forgotten.

They had been incredibly expensive, at least by her measure. An extravagance. It had seemed a waste to let them languish in a drawer, tied to memories of failed gestures.

So that evening, she had pulled them out and folded them carefully, before she tucked them in between the stack of sturdy, practical tunics and trousers. Cullen had said they would probably be gone three or four days. Maybe they would never leave her pack. But then again, maybe they would.

  


When they set out the next morning, the sum total of Ellana’s knowledge was the approximate duration of their journey, and that they were going “somewhere in Ferelden.” Rather than endure an interrogation, she’d simply left a note for Dorian. She also said a silent prayer for Josephine and Leliana - with both the Commander and Inquisitor absent, and no impending doom looming over them, she felt sure that someone would seize upon the opportunity. Probably Sera. _Definitely_ Sera.

They rode due south for the most of the day, before turning further east. Cullen seemed eager to keep a good pace, so their conversation had been sparse. He was neither silent nor withdrawn, but she thought he seemed a bit distracted. The view was breathtaking, the sweep of the Frostbacks a constant companion to their right, as they made their way across the foothills.

As the daylight began to grow dim, they stopped to make camp for the night in a small valley nestled between the hills, close to a small stream.

They quickly divided up the most pressing tasks between them - Ellana would get a fire started, and Cullen set up the tent and find a meal. She had to admit it felt oddly domestic.

The valley was lined with trees - ash and maple, and the occasional linden tree. Ellana recognized their graceful heart-shaped leaves. The little yellow-green flowers were just beginning to bloom, filling the air with a heady aroma and the buzzing of bees. She smiled, and thought Sera would enjoy this place tremendously.  

The weather had been dry, so she was able to gather ample kindling to keep them warm for the night. When she returned to the campsite, Cullen had already set up the small tent, and it appeared fish was to be their dinner. Hopefully. He sitting next to the stream, stick perched in his hands, _scowling_ at surface of the water.

Once Ellana had coaxed forth a flame, and carefully stacked on a few larger branches, she stepped away to peek inside the tent - two bedrolls, side by side. This was the most practical arrangement, of course, she told herself. Sleeping in one tent meant less to carry, less packing and unpacking, and they’d stay warmer that way.

The rest of the evening proceeded in the same quiet fashion as had their day. Cullen’s technique of glowering at the fish until they submitted was remarkably successful. They’d roasted several small trout over the fire, and enjoyed its warmth until full darkness fell upon them. He was still quieter than usual, but seemed content enough with the scant conversation she had led between them.

Cullen intimated that he would prefer they get an early start in the morning, and they should reach their destination by late afternoon the next day. He made his way into the tent, and his mood still seemed contemplative.

Should she follow him in? Well, she couldn’t very well leave him lying in the tent alone.

She was still wearing her leathers. But, her pack was sitting just outside the tent. Should she change before she went in? Or after? Or not at all? She couldn’t imagine _he_ was sleeping in his armor…

What Ellana really, desperately wanted at that moment was a guidebook. “How to Establish a Functional Relationship in Ten Easy Steps.” Maybe Varric could recommend something. Then again, considering his history with Bianca, maybe _not_.

She decided to split the difference, and changed outside the tent. A long, well-worn nightshirt, that hung down to her knees - not the most appealing attire. But, she decided to pull her hair loose from the tight braid, and brushed through the long, dark waves with her fingers. Practical with a touch of allure.

 _Or something like that_ … she thought with a sigh.

When she pulled back the heavy canvas flap, the moon cast enough dim light for her to see Cullen already spread on his bedroll. He was lying on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, eyes closed. The blanket that had made its home in his office for weeks past was folded neatly on top of her own bedroll. She quietly slipped inside, nestled herself underneath it, wondering if he was already asleep.

In the darkness of the tent, she heard him stir beside her.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Cullen said.

She felt his hand slip underneath the grey wool, searching for her own. She laced her fingers into his, lulled soon to sleep by sound of his soft, slow breath.  


 


	13. Love I Said It

_ The tent is small is small and dark and stifling and he can’t breathe. He can’t breathe, even though he knows it’s only canvas, and he’s not there anymore. Her hand, her fingers, warm and safe and wrapped in his and he’s not there anymore. He’s not there because it was a long time ago and he’s not that man. That boy. _

_ One, two, three, four, five. Soft and strong. She is there beside him, and she makes him strong, too. _

 

_ ~ _

 

The tent was empty when Ellana woke up. Cullen’s bedroll and blankets were neatly folded and bundled. Light was seeping in through the fabric walls, and she wondered how late she’d slept. She usually rose early in camp, waking with the rising of the sun. Her body seemed to feel the return to the rhythm of her old life, old sounds and smells and the damp of the earth beneath her. But the tent was far too bright for it to be close to dawn now.

She slipped back into her leathers, but left her feet bare. She was long used to wearing boots - footwraps were impractical in the snowy mountain weather. But she relished these moments when she could feel the grass under her feet. 

Cullen was just walking out of the tree line, his hands cupped together, filled with dozens of small, pale green berries. He offered her a generous handful, recalling that he and his siblings had enjoyed picking them when they were growing up. They were tart, and reminded her a bit of the little clusters of wild grapes she’d picked with her clan. 

The two of them stood together outside the tent, the morning cool and quiet, and she watched his mouth as he chewed. He grimaced a little at the sourness, and she smiled, thinking he enjoyed the nostalgia more than the flavor. 

“How long have you been awake?” she asked him.

“Not long. I’m usually up early, though. I was afraid I’d wake you, and you looked so… peaceful.” 

She  _ felt _ peaceful. Berries and bare feet, the breeze in her hair, and he just kept looking at her as if some great secret was written on her face. His hands were empty, and she kissed him, replacing the tartness of the berries with the sweetness of her lips and her tongue. And then his hands were full again, wrapped around her, bringing her in tight to him. 

He pulled away first, and she could feel her heart fluttering in her chest. Too fast, and everything around her moved a little slower. 

“We should finish packing up,” he said, breaking the spell.

They still had the better part of a day’s ride until they arrived at their destination. Wherever that was. She couldn’t say that she particularly cared, though. Yesterday had seemed laced with confusion, but this morning brought a little bit of clarity. 

They set out again, this time at a gentler pace. Cullen’s mood grew lighter as the day went on. The mountains receded into the distance, as the landscape gradually grew flatter and greener.

By early afternoon, they had passed through Edgehall, and came to a river crossing. As they guided their horses over the low, wooden bridge, Cullen said, “We’re getting closer now.” 

Low grassy hills were lined with walls of flat, neatly stacked stones. As they crested over the ridge of another hill, Ellana looked down in awe. The field was full of thousands of tiny, bright blue-purple blossoms. Cullen looked back at her, smiling broadly at her delight. She pulled tight on the reins of her horse, slowing down beside him. 

“They’re beautiful…” she said, staring out at the blanket of delicate violet flowers.

“They only bloom for such a short time, I wasn’t sure if we’d miss them…” 

She climbed down from her mount, consumed by the sea of color and the cloud of their cool scent. She kneeled down and skimmed her fingers along the curled edges of the petals.  

Cullen just stood and watched. This was exactly what he was hoping for - something small and beautiful, from a happy time in his life. He plucked one of the gently curved stalks, and bent down beside Ellana, tucking it behind her ear. 

She laughed softly, leaning forward to press her lips to his. He hadn’t felt like this in a very, very long time. 

“Did you know these would be in bloom when we left?” she asked. 

“I had hoped so…” 

He made it sound casual - it was anything but.

After their evening together Herald’s Rest, Cullen had laid awake in his bed. Taking stock of his life - of what he’d lost, of what he still had, of what he hoped yet to gain. He hadn’t thought of his parents in a long time, both lost during the chaos of the last Blight. His family had fled their home in Honnleath, and eventually resettled in South Reach. He’d scarcely been able to process their deaths at the time, still reeling from Kinloch Hold… 

He thought about his childhood, about tagging along with his sisters in the springtime, because his mother said it wasn’t safe for them to go alone, and Branson said picking flowers “was for girls.” So the three of them would wander off to the field filled with those fleeting blooms. His sisters wreathed themselves in bluebell crowns, pretending to be princesses, insisting that he play the valiant knight to protect them from the imaginary dragon lurking nearby. 

He’d always pick an armful of them to take back to his mother. She would smile, her eyes gentle. “Such a good son, and such a good brother,” she had said. He remembered the way she cried when he left to become a Templar. Only thirteen.

He remembered the lake… his quiet escape, and she had always understood. When the chaos of princesses and dragons and an uncooperative little brother became too much for her stolid eldest son, she understood that he needed a place to go. Some time to himself. Sometimes he would skip stones across the glassy surface of the water, sometimes he would make a half-hearted attempt at fishing. Other times he would simply sit, and listen to the croak of the toads and watch the little snails crawl up the reeds. 

He still had his sisters and his brother, although it had been too long since he had seen them all. He had a nephew - Branson’s boy.

And what did he hope to gain? Her. More laughter, more smiles, more stories.  _ More nights together.. _ . What did he possibly have to give? Just himself, and hopefully that would be enough. 

He’d risen early the morning after, and told Josephine and Leliana that he needed a few days away for some personal business. If they were surprised, they didn’t express it. Cullen was grateful for that.

And now she was here with him, flower tucked behind her gracefully pointed ear, smiling at him, with him. Because he didn’t want to sit alone beside the lake anymore.

 

* * *

 

Riding on, they returned to the river’s edge, following its meandering path as it grew wider and wider. Soon enough, the river opened into a broad, clear lake, its surface still and unruffled. 

Their pace slowed until they reached a small clearing near the edge of the water. Tall rushes and reeds grew along the shore, as metallic blue-green dragonflies danced between them. There was a low pier extending out into the lake, worn and weathered boards lashed to sturdy pilings.

Cullen dismounted and stepped alongside her horse, gently grasping her waist as she came down. 

“So, have we arrived?” she asked, her hand reaching up to feel for the spray of flowers - drooping now, but still tucked snuggly into her hair. 

He nodded. “I grew up not far from here. This place was always quiet.” 

Ellana could see why he’d liked it - all was silent but for birdsong and the buzz of cicadas. 

“Did you come here often?” 

“Yes… I loved my siblings, but they were very…  _ loud.  _ I would come here to clear my head. Of course, they always found me eventually.” 

She couldn’t help but chuckle. Apparently his habits had changed very little since childhood. At least now, he could order away  _ some _ of the noisy people he was hiding from in his office.

“You were happy here?”

“I was,” he said, as he leaned down to seal his lips over hers, his thumb gently stroking down her cheek. “I still am.”

They sat down next to one another on the rough boards of the dock. She slipped off her boots, and dangled her feet over the edge. Cullen watched the little ripples as she dipped her toes into the water. Curling her arm through his, she leaned her head against him. 

“The last day I was here was the day I left for Templar training.” Cullen opened his hand, revealing a worn silver coin. “My brother gave me this.”

“It just happened to be in his pocket, but he said it was for luck. Templars are not supposed to carry such things. Our  _ faith _ should see us through…” he said, his voice tinged with the barest hint of bitterness.

“You broke the rules? I’m  _ shocked, _ ” Ellana said with a small grin.

“I used to be very good at following rules… Most of the time. This was the only thing I took from Ferelden that the Templars didn’t give me.”

He reached down and gently grasped her hand with his. “Humor me. We don’t what else is still to come…”

Cullen placed the coin in her empty palm, carefully folding her fingers around it.

“I know it’s foolish, but every time you leave...”  _ I miss you each second you’re gone. I worry for you even though I know you’re strong and capable. _

“It’s not foolish,” she said quietly.

It was a lifetime ago when Branson gave it to him, an afterthought from his little brother. But one that had seen him through dark times. A reminder of better days. 

He was a different man now. Living a different life altogether. Hoping she understood. Hoping she knew that he just wanted a piece of himself to be close to her, always. Even if, Maker forbid, the worst were to happen, she would have some small reminder of how much he cared for her. Loved her, even though he hadn’t yet said the words. 

She leaned her head back against his shoulder, her clasped hand pressed over her chest. He didn’t want to move or speak or spoil this moment. 

The sun fell lower in the sky, the silence punctuated by the call of a cormorant. 

“Should we set up the tent?” Ellana asked.

_ The flowers, the lake, the coin… One last piece to fit into place. _

“Well, I wanted to ask… There’s an inn nearby. We could get a meal… and perhaps a room for the night,” his voice lowering audibly at the last detail. “If you wish. Or I can set up the tent, of course. Either is fine.” 

_ Maker, this sounded better in my head... _

“The inn sounds lovely,” she replied. And Cullen breathed a sigh of relief. 

 

* * *

 

The White Hart was situated just outside of Honnleath. Tendrils of ivy crept up the white-washed stone, and the tall peaks of the roof were freshly thatched. A sign hung over the doorway, the name painted in gold letters with a small figure of a stag above it. 

They handed their horses over to the stable boy before making their way inside. It was cosy, warm, and markedly tidier than many of the inns and guesthouses she’d stayed at over her time with the Inquisition. Low, dark wood beams lined the ceiling - a staple of Fereldan architecture, she’d come to notice. 

An assortment of tables and chairs filled the space, largely empty, while the majority of the patrons were gathered around the low wooden counter occupying one end of the room. 

“Can I help you?” The man behind the bar asked, wiping his hands on the towel slung over his shoulder. Ruddy faced, a bushy beard flecked with grey. His demeanor was friendly enough, if a bit wary. 

“Yes, we’d like to have a meal, and lodgings for the night as well,” Cullen replied.

The locals were staring...  _ I shouldn’t have tucked my hair behind my ears, _ she thought. She was used to it, but didn’t want any problems. Not tonight. 

Ellana stepped closer to Cullen. “Why don’t I go and fetch our bags?” 

He glanced around the room, his expression defiant for a moment, before softening as his gaze returned to her. “Yes, of course. Thank you,” he said, kissing her on the cheek before she headed back to the stables.

“So… an elf, eh?” the innkeep said, his eyes following Ellana out the door.

“What of it?” Cullen replied, glaring coldly at the man.

“Oh, mean no offense, ser!” he sputtered. “Just a bit unusual’s all. Got no problem with the elves myself. Good enough to be the Herald of our Maker’s Bride, then they’re certainly good enough for likes of me. Don’t hold with none of that  _ knife ear _ nonsense, no ser.” 

“Got us an elf as works here, matter of fact. Back in the kitchen. Emith’s his name. Good lad, works hard, and we treat him fair,” he rambled on, oblivious to Cullen’s growing irritation. 

“Yes, I’m sure you do… The room?” Cullen prodded, reaching into his pocket.

“Ah, right,” the man said, glancing down at the small bag of coin Cullen had conspicuously placed on the counter before him. He leaned down to fumble underneath the bar, before rising again, key in hand.  “Here you are. Best room in the place. Got a bath at the end of the hall, if you’re interested. No extra charge, of course. Maids’ll fetch up some hot water for you and the missus quick as can be.”

“I think we’d like to have our meal first. But yes, I’m sure my… wife would like a bath,” Cullen said, the lie slipping off his tongue a bit too easily, he thought.

“Very good. Everything’ll be just so, don’t you worry. Room’s ready, bath’ll be waiting. Fine mounts you both got - I’ll make sure my boy gives ‘em a good brush down and some oats as well. You two have a seat anywhere you like, Elsie’ll be out in a moment,” the innkeep rambled.

“Oh, and name’s Rupert,” he added, extending his hand out.

“Cullen,” he replied, shaking the man’s hand. 

Rupert eagerly clambered from the behind the bar as soon as he spotted Ellana coming through the door, relieving her of the heavy bags and insisting they both make themselves comfortable. 

“Well, he’s…  _ eager,”  _ she remarked, as they sat down at a small round table in the corner of the room. 

Cullen simply nodded. It was sometimes easy to forget the bigotry of the wider world, when your days were spent in an organization centered around an elf with the power to bring down a demigod in the palm of her hand. He wasn’t about to let that prejudice spoil this evening, though, and if it took a bit of coin to ensure that happened, so be it. He’d be pleased to pick that battle another day.

The aforementioned Elsie turned out to be the innkeep’s wife, equally pleasant and markedly less obsequious. Her smile was genuine, and they accepted her recommendation of a lamb stew and local cider. 

The stew was warm and filling, reminiscent of the meals he’d grown up with. The cider was surprisingly potent. The conversation, though, was stifled at first. Ellana spent much of the early part of their meal making furtive glances at the patrons lining the bar. A few more had milled in and taken up empty seats, but none had so much as looked at them again. Rupert had smiled and offered her a polite wave when he’d caught her eye once. 

Cullen’s brow had settled back down lower over his eyes, the corner of his mouth turned down. 

“The stew is delicious,” she said, smiling widely, trying to shake off the vestiges of her discomfort. “Twice in a row I haven’t had to cook. It’s a pleasant change.”

“You cook when you’re out in the field?” Cullen asked, looking surprised.

Ellana laughed, “Well, I prefer not to starve, or spend weeks eating dried meat and those awful crackers. I was a hunter before I became the high and mighty Inquisitor, as you well know. And our friends are surprisingly useless at feeding themselves. Feeding themselves  _ well, _ anyways. Bull made a stew once, and I swear he put  _ rashvine _ in it…” 

Cullen chuckled, an easy back and forth between them resumed. They finished their stew, and sipped the last of the cider. 

Elsie sidled over to the table, warm smile fixed in place. “Oh, looks like you enjoyed the meal! Well, your room’s ready whenever you are,” she said with a wink. 

 

* * *

 

The room - singular. Spacious, again surprisingly tidy. A fire crackling in the large, stone hearth, walls panelled in dark wood, a small dresser and wash basin in the corner. 

The bed - also singular.

_ And what exactly were you expecting? _ she thought. 

It was… she didn’t know  _ what _ it was. Things were slow, then they weren’t fast enough. Then it was one tent, but still two bedrolls. And now? Now… one room. In an inn. With one bed. She was rambling even inside her own head.

Then there was still the matter of the pale blue silk tucked away between the linen and leather… 

She hoped her cheeks weren’t as pink as they felt. 

“I… thought you might like a bath. The innkeep said it’s at the end of the hall,” Cullen offered. 

“Yes, that sounds lovely…”

She scooped up her bag, smiled nervously at him, and made a beeline for the door. Chiding herself all the way down the hall, she was pleased to find the bath water was still hot. 

The tub was small, but deep. A clean towel and a little bar of pine tar soap were laid out on a wooden bench. A far cry from the finely milled Orlesian soaps she was pampered with at Skyhold, but welcome all the same. 

She sank down into the warm water, scrubbing herself clean, before lathering a bit of the soap through her hair. Dirt and sweat washed away.

She thought about arrogant boys with moonshine… Moonshiners with deft hands… Liars with silver tongues and silence… All of them gone and each had taken a piece of her with them. 

He wouldn’t just take and take and leave her empty. He wouldn’t just lie between her legs and seek oblivion in her flesh. 

He only gave. Time and talk and flowers and memories, old and new.

So, she would make new ones, too. She would give. She would put it on again. Feel hopeful again. 

She quickly toweled her hair dry, and walked back down the hall. A simple pearl grey nightgown on top this time; teeth worrying her lip, breaths long and slow. 

He was sitting on the edge of the bed when she opened the door. Linen breeches and bare skin - strong, muscled, scarred with other memories. 

He rubbed the back of his neck and she laughed. “You always do that, you know? Rub the back of your neck when you’re…” 

“Nervous,” he finished. 

“I am, too.” 

“I… We don’t have to do…  _ anything. _ Just this… being here, with you...” 

Always asking, never taking. 

“I know,” she said. But she wanted him, wanted this. She could say it a thousand times, or she could show him once. Standing before him, her fingers hesitantly gripped the hem, sliding the gown higher. Hoping what was beneath was enough this time.

Where she’d seen exhaustion and irritation before, Cullen’s face showed only reverence and awe.  

He pressed his mouth hungrily against hers, and tugged gently at the ribbons tied at her shoulders, the straps falling down limply. He turned his attention to the intricately criss-crossed ribbons along the front. Eagerly unraveling the careful pattern of the lacing, at last the band fell free. And he marveled.

“Maker, you are so beautiful,” he said breathlessly, pulling her into his lap.

His fingers splayed across her shoulder blades, he gently tilted her body back, while he leaned his head forward. His tongue circled around the hard, deep rose peak of her breast, eliciting a groan of pleasure. Spurred on by the sounds, his mouth enveloped the whole, lips pulling and suckling, while the rough surface of his tongue rasped across the delicate skin. 

As she pushed her hips forward, she could feel the hard line of him beneath her. Rocking against him wasn’t enough, though. She could feel the want, the  _ need _ , building.

His arms wrapped firmly around her, and he laid her back onto the bed. His body was perched over hers, tense and looming, but his touch was gentle. Propped up on one hand resting behind her head, his other slowly skimmed down her body. Her hips arched forward as his fingers slipped beneath the scant lace. 

“So wet…” he whispered, sinking a finger inside of her. Her breath escaped in a shuddering gasp, as he pushed a second in. She moved in rhythm with his slow strokes, his fingers curving just slightly within her. Feeling the tension build, his mouth hovered just above hers. 

She flicked her tongue teasingly against his lip, and reached forward. Her hands fumbled at the waistband, desperate to remove the last barriers between them. 

“I want to feel you,” she murmured. He slid his fingers out gently, hooking his thumbs under the thin silk, and pulled it away.

Spread bare before him, she held a trembling hand to his chest. She could feel his heart hammering just as frantically as her own. He slipped his breeches off, tossing them carelessly onto the floor, then settled himself between her thighs.

His forehead leaned into hers, and she could feel him pressed against her entrance, waiting. It was more,  _ he  _ was more - both figuratively and literally. For all her heckling, Sera had been right. Cullen was…  _ proportional _ . 

“Is this alright?” he asked. 

“Yes… please,” she begged.

He pushed slowly, watching her expression carefully, waiting for her to adjust, inch by inch. His hand slipped under her hips, guiding her into his shallow thrusts. 

She lifted her leg around his waist, pulling him deeper. He rolled his hips forward in answer, seating himself fully within her. 

Their bodies moved together more urgently, a call and response. She prayed the walls of the inn were thicker than the canvas of the tent. His hands clasped into hers, held high above her head. 

It was all she could do to keep breathing, her legs both wrapped tightly around him now, then her arms hooked under his shoulders. Both of them grasping together, reaching out for release.

He slipped his hand between them, gliding his fingers over the bundle of nerves, and she cried out as she came. Breaking around him, begging him to follow her. A few more frantic thrusts, and she felt him spill inside her. 

His arms around her, she could feel his chest heaving against her own, fighting for air.

“Please don’t let go,” she said, feeling foolish, but afraid that she might fall away if he did. 

Still inside her, still grounded within her, he pulled her closer against him. She could see the quiet confusion on his face, but it didn’t matter if he understood, only that he stayed. 

The other words sat heavy on her lips still. The words that couldn’t be taken back once spoken. But saying them was like opening a door, and waiting, hoping they want to come inside, that you won’t be left sitting alone.

She said them anyways. “I love you. You know that, right?” 

He kissed her again, like hearing the words wasn’t enough. Like he wanted to feel the shape of her mouth as she formed them, the taste of her lips as she spoke them.

“I love you, too. So much…” he replied.

 

\--

  
  


She laid next to him, her head cradled under his shoulder, listening to his soft snoring. The blankets were wrapped tightly around her - he’d asked if he could open the window, and seemed grateful that she didn’t yet ask why. 

Her fingers traced lightly along the lines of scars, some faint and faded, some more recent, wondering at the story behind each one. 

She didn’t need to know everything. Just that he trusted her enough to tell her when he could.

She’d said the words, but they still didn’t quite feel like enough. She had said them before. But that love had been ripped out so easily. 

This love, though… This little seed that she scarcely knew had been planted. Growing in the darkness, until she realized the roots were deep and twined around her heart. 

She could fall asleep tonight, and know he would be there still in the morning. 

  
  



	14. Waves to the Shore

Cullen Rutherford had fallen asleep comforted by the knowledge that he would wake up in the embrace of the woman he loved. Unfortunately, that proved to be not entirely accurate. In actuality, he woke up with the arm of the woman he loved flung over his face, and the foot of the woman he loved somehow wedged under his thigh.

He tried to peel her limbs off of him as gently as possible, but she was woken by the movement, a sleepy grin plastered to her face.

“Good morning,” she mumbled, wrapping him again in a tangle of arms and legs. 

He brushed his fingers through her hair, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Good morning.”

The sun was streaming in through the open window, but Ellana was determined to keep Cullen in bed for as long as possible. She grumbled something about it being “too bright” and tucked her face against his shoulder.

Inhaling deeply, she hummed… Pine and sweat and oakmoss and _her._ Pressing her lips to his neck, lightly brushing her tongue across his skin, her hands roamed across his bare chest.  

“I still haven’t given you your lesson,” she whispered into his ear. 

“What lesson is that?” He had no idea what she was talking about, but felt quite sure he would be an attentive pupil. 

“I still have to teach you all the very, very nice words that Sister Maeve left out of her book, _ma vheraan_.”

 _“Ma vheraan?_ ”

He felt the vibration of her laughter against his throat. “Yes, _my lion_ …” she said, running her fingers through his hair.  

“And you can’t deny the pomade anymore, because look at your mane! My poor raggedy lion, what have I done to you?” she teased, grinning again. “Hmm… alright, what shall I teach you next?” 

She hooked a leg around his waist and pulled herself upright, settling down astride his hips.

He’d never felt more eager learn. 

She swept her hair to the side, draping it over her shoulder. Learning forward, she stroked the tip of her finger slowly down the bridge of his nose. 

“ _Hron,”_ she said, as he wrinkled his nose and gave a playful growl. One hand wrapped slowly around her hip, thumb stroking at the smooth skin just below it.  

Her finger trailed down over the tip of his nose, and glided gently across his lips. 

 _“Av’in,”_ she said, as he snapped his teeth gently around her finger tip, snarling. He was her _vheraan_ , after all…  

She tossed her head back and giggled madly. _“Avin’gala,”_ she said, tugging gently on her finger until he released it. His lips spread into a smirk, as his empty hand wrapped around her other hip. They both began to slowly glide up her sides in tandem.  

“Mmm… _duinelan…”_ she moaned, as his hands cupped her breasts, thumbs gently brushing over her nipples.   

“And what about this?” Cullen asked, as he slowly traced two fingers down between her breasts, her stomach, slowly brushing lower. 

“Ahhh…” she said breathlessly. _“Edhas.”_  

He gripped his hands firmly at her hips again, and lifted her over him. She gave a short squeal of surprise, and struggled her keep herself upright as he pulled her higher. On her knees now, straddling wide over him, she could feel the warmth of his breath below the warmth of her core. 

“And whatever shall I do with your _edhas?”_  

Not content to wait for an answer, he spread wet kisses teasingly up and down the inside of her thighs. 

 _“Sathan, dava ‘ma edhas,”_ she instructed. His hands pushed down gently, pulling her lower onto him, his tongue lightly brushing against her.

She arched her back and inhaled sharply, pushing her hips forward, dragging herself across his lips. _“Atha ‘ma’edhas’av i mar av_ ,” she begged.  

His Elven was still rudimentary at best, but he was a quick study of her body language. Cullen pushed his mouth hard against her entrance, spreading her hips wider still over him, relishing the taste of her on his tongue. 

He couldn’t remember ever enjoying his studies more. And when she finally cried out a familiar word - his name - he suspected she would be pleased with his diligence.

 

~

 

Two days later, they arrived back at Skyhold to little fanfare, much to their mutual relief. It was nearly dark, and other than the guards stationed at the gates, no one greeted them. They handed their horses over to the grooms at the stables, and stood for a moment, smiling sheepishly at one another. 

“So… are we going off to our own quarters again?” Ellana asked. 

Neither of them had really considered this. Then again, neither of them had really known precisely what would happen during their time together… 

Cullen sighed, “It’s not what I would prefer… but, it may be best, just for now.” 

“Just for tonight,” he added hastily, thinking “now” still sounded like far too long. 

She nodded in agreement. They were in Skyhold, where he was Commander Rutherford and she was Inquisitor Lavellan. Sure, she _could_ just move her stuff into Cullen’s office and call it a day. Then again, she _could_ also dance naked on her throne while reciting smutty Orlesian poetry. Just because she _could_ do something didn’t make her exempt from the complications and consequences.  

But, part of her felt again like she was falling back into a familiar situation… 

He could see old worry washing over her, and placed his hand reassuringly against her cheek. “I have _nothing_ I wish to hide. I don’t want to sneak around and keep secrets. But…” he paused, brow furrowed, searching for the right words. “I don’t want to have to share this with anyone else yet. Something that is only mine, only _ours._ ”

“I’m a rather selfish man,” he said with a slight grin. 

She leaned forward, kissing him softly on the cheek. “I understand. We’ll figure it out, together.” 

She settled back down into an empty bed again that night, bleary with exhaustion, but full and happier than she’d felt in a very long time.

 

~  


 

Resolution did not come easily. “Just for tonight” turned into several nights. 

The first morning after their return had brought an uncomfortable conversation with Josephine. Chantry representatives were due to arrive in Skyhold in a few days time. They were eager to discuss Divine Victoria’s initiatives for the Circles and the Templar Order in detail.

“And this puts the Inquisition, and you, in a rather… precarious position,” Josephine said. 

The issue was that the Inquisition needed to attempt to maintain a position of neutrality. And the Chantry might take umbrage with the Inquisitor becoming involved with an _ex-_ Templar. And conversely, supporters of the newly formed College of Enchanters might take umbrage with the Inquisitor becoming involved with an ex- _Templar._ One side would resent him for what he used to be, the other for what he had become. It was in the Inquisition’s best interest to maintain friendly relations with both sides. 

Josie was adamant that she was happy for them - “Oh, it’s _terribly_ romantic!” she’d exclaimed. But the fact remained that there were those who were beginning to question just what the Inquisition’s purpose was, now that Corypheus was long gone. Anything that created friction would serve to fuel speculation about the necessity Inquisition’s existence. 

She thought it seemed pointless to pretend they weren’t involved, when the rumor mill had all but confirmed that they _were_. But Cullen had pointed out that rubbing it in the Chantry’s face would not help.

So, they had agreed that, at least until their “guests” had come and gone, they would maintain a strictly professional relationship.  

This proved to be easier said than done.

Five high-ranking members arrived from Val Royeaux three days later. A full schedule of meetings and tours and luncheons and dinners and enough tea drown a small army had been arranged. It was tedious and exhausting. The only bright spot in all of this was the fact that Cullen’s attendance was required at all of the meetings, and several of the dinners and luncheons.

Josie thought her job had actually gotten easier, since Cullen was surprisingly eager to sit around and drink tea with four Chantry Mothers and a wizened old Chancellor. She did not immediately consider that his eagerness might prove problematic.

It was roughly two hours into a lengthy meeting in the war room, which had been rearranged to provide ample comfort and refreshment for their guests. Cullen seated himself next to the Inquisitor, and had spent the past half hour silently debating which place he preferred kissing more - the little indentation just below Ellana’s collarbone, or the slight dimple at the base of her spine.

“What do you think of the idea, Commander?”

The Revered Mother was staring intently. _Everyone_ was staring intently. Clearly she had been speaking to him. And, clearly to Josephine, he had not been paying a bit of intention.

“Ah... well, I’m inclined to agree with your opinion, Your Grace.”

She nodded sagely, and seemed appeased by his answer. Cullen breathed a small sigh of relief, while Josephine glared at him from across the table.

The second sign of trouble came the next evening at dinner. The two of them were intentionally seated on opposite sides of the table this time. The meal was unremarkable, and the conversation was as sparkling as one would expect given the company.

Cullen had made a concerted effort to keep his eyes anywhere but on Ellana this time. It didn’t help that she had pulled her hair up into an elaborate braid, and that the neckline of her dress was just barely on the right side of conversative. He listened dutifully to Chancellor Bernard, nodding along despite the fact that the man’s thick Orlesian accent meant Cullen only understood roughly half of what he said. He most certainly was not thinking about how lovely the Inquisitor’s dress would look crumpled up on the floor beside his bed…

After the plates were cleared, and they had all stood up from the table, Cullen casually moved to stand near her. A strand of dark hair had escaped from the small jeweled pins holding it in place, and draped down the back of her neck. He reached out, mindlessly wrapping the curl around his fingers before tucking it back into place. She arched her neck, the corner of her mouth tugging up ever so slightly as his fingers brushed across her skin.

Leliana was politely listening to Mother Delphine prattle on about a “chain of accountability” for the Templars, while watching this simple but surprisingly intimate gesture between Cullen and the Inquisitor. She noticed that she was not the only one watching, though. Revered Mother Philomena was eyeing them as well. She quickly redirected the conversation, roping the Revered Mother into a lively debate on an interpretation of the Canticle of Threnodies.

The third, and final, incident came the following day. They’d had another early morning meeting, then escorted their guests on a brief tour through the infirmary, before they were scheduled to resume discussions in the war room.

Their path through Skyhold led them past the small Chapel, where they requested to stop and offer afternoon prayers.

While candles were lit and lips uttered praise in unison, Ellana sat quietly on a bench along the back wall of the room. Hands folded in her lap, she sought to adopt a reverent posture without drawing attention to herself. Cullen had filed into the room a few moments later, and quietly sat down beside her. As he bowed his head and joined in their recitation, she felt the warmth of his hand over hers. Head still lowered, he turned to glance at her, smiling as their fingers wrapped around one another.

She pulled her hand quickly back into her lap as their benedictions concluded, and the group began to file out of the door. Cullen rose to leave with them, but Ellana quietly called him back.

“Wait…” she said, slipping her hand around his arm.

He remembered the last time they had sat together in this place. How different things were now between them. He felt no hesitation when he leaned forward, only desire as he sought to familiarize himself again with her scent and taste and every soft curve of her body.

"How quiet can you be?” he’d whispered into her ear, as his hand slipped under the deep blue silk of her blouse.

The answer to that was _not very_.

A red-faced Josephine had sauntered into the Chapel five minutes later, just as Cullen had pinned her to the wall behind the statue of Andraste, and Ellana had just begun to unlace his breeches.

She hadn’t known it was possible for someone to shout and whisper at the same time.

 _“What are you doing?”_ the irate Antivan had scolded. “Put yourselves… _in order_ , and get back to the war room at once. _Separately.”_

Cullen was bluntly informed his presence was no longer required the next day, nor would be be needed to see the group off when they returned to Val Royeaux the day after that.

He resented being scolded like a child. However, he had absolutely no regrets about his actions, other than their being discovered far too quickly. Yes, he knew he was being ridiculous, and acting like a boy half his age, as Josephine had already informed him. But if some stuffy Revered Mother wanted to turn her nose up at him for daring to smile at the Herald of Andraste, frankly, he didn’t care. 

His tolerance for the tedium of his job seemed to wane by the second ever since they had returned to Skyhold. He hadn’t thought about requisition forms or training schedules or duty rosters a single time while they were away. Cullen began to wonder in earnest what laid ahead, beyond everything that had become comfortable and familiar to him here.

 

 

* * *

 

  


He was still awake when he heard her whimper. Tired but too overwhelmed by the need to take her in. The way she fit perfectly against him. The warm puff of breath that came slower and slower against his skin. The sleepy hum when he stroked his fingertips up and down her arm.

She told him she’d had enough, asked him to come to her room, asked him to stay, and he was not of a mind to refuse. He’d said already that he was a selfish man, and he thought now that it suited him. The Chantry, the Order, the Inquisition - he’d given them all enough. What was left was hers, and if she wanted him to shout it from the battlements, then so be it. Whatever madness had overtaken him a week ago, when he thought propriety was “for the best,” had passed. 

They could mutter and mumble and gossip and think him soft. He didn’t care anymore.

It came quietly at first, and he had tried to comfort her. “Shh,” he’d whispered, lips pressed to her forehead, but the expression on her face only grew more troubled. Eyes squeezed tightly shut, serenity erased and pain fixed in its place.

Tears trickled down her cheeks, and he wiped them away as quickly as he could. But they came still as he held her, trying to wake her gently and pull her from the grasp of her dreams.

He knew what lurked there. He knew the faces they wore, the words they whispered, the memories they teased out your mind and forced you to relive, over and over.

  
  


The crackle, the flash, the smell of ozone. She sat bolt upright, clutching her hand, gasping, weeping.

She began covering it up early on. A strip of dark cloth wrapped around her palm had sufficed. It was hard to have a conversation when someone was distracted by the pulsing green light. Not to mention it made sleep rather difficult when you had to shove your hand under the pillow every night. 

Josephine had eventually insisted on something more fashionable, without sacrificing function. Pale nugskin, lightweight and perfectly fitted, close enough to her own skin tone so as to be unnoticeable most of the time. It made it easier to ignore, easier to forget if she tried hard enough. 

The pain, the memories, so much blood and so much hurt. 

She knew he was there, but his voice was drowned out, she couldn’t feel his warmth or his touch, just the pain. Again and again, intense and piercing and unrelenting.

“I left him there,” she wept. 

How could she do that? How could she abandon a person like that? Left to die alone, in the dark, in the Fade devoured by a Nightmare. Scared and shaking. 

 _In death, sacrifice._ He was a willing sacrifice, though, wasn’t he? Or was this a lie she told herself, because in reality, she hadn’t wanted to leave Hawke behind. She didn’t want to see the pain on Varric’s face, so she had selfishly chosen Stroud to die instead. 

She had touched something that didn’t belong to her. Something Solas knew and wanted more than he’d wanted her. Something that was slowly devouring her - was she a willing sacrifice, too? 

“It hurts.” 

 _Is that my voice?_  

She should have stayed behind. She should have let the Nightmare have her, take her, flay her, consume her. Her death could have meant something at least. 

Hands in her hair and on her face, whispers in her ear. She didn’t want to listen, though. The words she didn’t deserve to hear. The comfort she didn’t deserve to feel. 

How could he lie there next to her? How could he touch her? The choices she’d made, the ones she’d condemned to death and perhaps something worse still. What if Stroud didn’t die? What if he was still there, still running from a Nightmare that fed on his fear, breath panting, pulse racing? 

She deserved this pain. 

The anchor dragged her down to the bottom, and she was content to drown there. But the hands were stronger, pulling her back to shore. 

“I need you to teach me something,” he said. 

Teach him what? How to kill and condemn and crack apart?

“How do you say “I love you” in Elven? You didn’t teach me that one yet…”

 _Ar lath ma._ Over and over and over like waves against the sand. Eroded and carried out to sea. Empty words from an empty heart.

“Tell me.”

 _“Ar lath ma,”_ she said. 

 _“Ar lath ma,”_ he said.  

Over and over and over likes waves pushing her out of the deep and onto dry land. He was the sun, warm on her skin. He held her hair back when she choked out the brackish water that filled her lungs. He whispered it insistently, and without deceit. 

She wondered why he loved her, but was afraid to ask. Maybe tomorrow she would be brave enough.

  



	15. Pour Myself Over Him

It wasn’t a restful night, but sleep had found her eventually. It was brief and dreamless, and for that she was grateful. She felt more grateful still to wake up encircled in strong arms, the subtle rise and fall of Cullen’s chest against her back. 

Ellana carefully pulled her arms out of his embrace, raising them above her head and arching into a stretch. He stirred beside her, pushing her hair to the side and resting his lips softly on the back of her neck.

_ “On dhea,” _ he murmured drowsily.

_ “Oh dhea,”  _ she replied, rolling over to face him. She kissed him in her favorite spots - the bridge of his nose, the right corner of his mouth, the scar above his lip. Once more below his ear, just along his jawline, laughing when his shoulder jerked up reflexively. She had too many little places like that, which he found great amusement in discovering and exploiting. 

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Better.” 

He took her left hand in his, kissing the tops of each of her fingers, before pressing his lips to the soft leather covering her palm.

“And your hand?” 

“Better, too,” she replied.

That was his ritual now, each morning for the past three weeks. Last night she was restless again, but there was only a dull, throbbing ache in her palm. She’d promised she would tell him, that she wouldn’t pretend it was fine. But she felt guilty, robbing him of rest that she knew he struggled to find, too.

It was pouring rain outside. A chorus of heavy drops on the stone echoed off the walls and high ceilings. The sky was grey and cloudy, leaving her bedroom dim despite the expanse of tall windows that lined the walls. There would be morning training with the soliders, and all the more time to enjoy their respite from the bigger problems that lurked outside the door.

Her room was a place for little things, small bits of knowledge she’d gleaned. Ellana knew he didn’t like the sheets to be tucked in, and only slept with one pillow that he bunched into a ball under his head. He practically purred when she brushed her fingers lightly over his back, but hated having his feet touched. Always honey in his tea, usually raspberry jam on his toast. And if she pushed out her lower lip and hooked her finger onto his waistband, she could almost always convince him to come back to bed for just a few more minutes. 

No convincing was necessary this morning, though. She burrowed herself back against him, enjoying the warmth of his skin. When sleep had eluded them last night, they’d found better ways to fill the time and find comfort. She liked waking up next to him with nothing to push or tug out of the way. But she got the feeling Cullen preferred it the other way around. He smiled a little wider when his hands had to pull the thin straps off of her shoulders, or slip under a hem to skim up her thighs.

He liked to explore. He would watch her expression carefully, discerning the subtle differences when he rubbed his palm or brushed his fingertip against a stretch of bare skin. This was why he had found a staggering number of  _ those _ spots. He noticed that the places where she gave a little bend or twitch, when he gently stroked, were usually the ones where she would double over and burst into giggles when he was more insistent. 

She was less adventurous and more impatient. Finding the places he responded to her touch, returning to them again and again. She felt too eager to see his eyes grow wide and his lip curl up in a grin. A little smug at first, until it wasn’t anymore. Then his eyes would close, his head would tilt back and he’d sigh. 

But he was still not quite awake yet, and she was in the mood for questions. 

“What is your middle name?” Ellana asked him.

Cullen groaned, “Why?” 

She brushed her lips against the rough stubble along his jaw. “Because I want to know.” 

“Fine… It’s  _ Stanton _ ,” he said, drawing the name out with note of irritation. 

“Why do you say it like that?”

“It was my great uncle’s name. He owned a dry goods shop in Honnleath. Mia and I had to spend many a Saturday morning there helping out, when we were growing up. He was a rather miserable old man, smelled like sour cabbage.” 

Ellana clapped her hand over her mouth, trying to smother her laughter. “Oh, poor little Cullen  _ Stanton _ …” she teased.

“Alright then, what’s your middle name?”

She stared at him with an expression of feigned seriousness. “I will tell you only if you promise you won’t tell Sera. Because it’s _ very _ elfy, and I’ll never hear the end of it if she finds out. Do you agree to my terms?” 

He nodded solemnly, but she could see his lips fighting to quirk up in a smile.

“It’s Nehnsuledin,” she said. 

“Nehn…” 

“...suledin. See, I  _ told _ you it was elfy!” she snickered. 

“Does it… mean something in particular?” 

“It means  _ enduring joy. _ ” 

Cullen hummed thoughtfully as he gently pushed her back gently onto the bed, and his mouth grazed across her shoulder.

“I think it’s a very appropriate name.” 

She knew he had something altogether different in mind when he said it, but Ellana thought that maybe it was still true. Maybe she was something that would last, something that would stay, something that would make him happy. She wanted to. Making him happy seemed simple. It was the sum of so many small things. Tea and toast and ticklish spots. Childhood memories and chasing away nightmares. 

But, he was exploring again...

“We’re supposed meet Josie and Leliana this morning,” she protested, rather weakly.

“They can wait.” 

It was inconsiderate. It was unprofessional. 

But the scrape of his stubble against the inside of her thigh, and the glide of his tongue along her, convinced her otherwise.

 

-

 

They were very late getting to the war room.  _ (Was it really a war room anymore if there wasn’t a war?  _ she wondered. _ )  _ Ellana thought she should probably try to look a little ashamed, but what was the point? Josephine was too polite to say anything, and Leliana probably already knew precisely how they’d spent their morning. A little teasing and smirking was a small price to pay. 

“Inquisitor. Commander. How nice of you both to join us,” Leliana crooned. 

_ Yes, definitely smirking, _ Ellana thought. 

Lady Nightingale’s amusement was short lived, thankfully. 

“My agents have been getting reports of earthquakes along the Storm Coast. The most concerning part of this is that there are several active lyrium mines in the area. We have had no word yet from Orzammar, but as they are the Inquisition’s main lyrium supplier, this could be very concerning,” Leliana said.

“I’ve tried to put in a subtle word with a few of our dwarven contacts, making it clear that the Inquisition would be more than happy to offer assistance to should it be required,” Josephine added.

Asking Varric about this would probably be a good idea.

But Varric was still on a boat somewhere between Jader and Kirkwall.

 

Two weeks ago, she’d found him sitting alone at a table at the Herald’s Rest, thumbing through a thick stack of letters. 

“Mind if I join you?” she asked.

“Nah, pull up a seat, Inquisitor,” he said, trying for jovial and failing miserably.  

“More letters?” Ellana thought the pile looked substantially larger than the small parcel he’d read through months ago in the Western Approach.

“You forget that I’m a famous author, Chestnut. You’d be surprised at how much fan mail I get. Granted, most of it is pretty sad, creepy shit. But still, I’m  _ very _ popular.” 

Varric Tethras, Master of Deflection. She simply glared, slightly arching an eyebrow.

“Alright, alright, don’t give me that look… Maker’s balls, you’re as bad as the Seeker ever was. The truth is, I got a letter from Fenris, which usually only happens when he thinks she’s missing or dead,” Varric sighed. “Thankfully, Hawke’s neither of those. But, she’s not doing so great. He’s worried. I mean, he didn’t come right out and say it. Broody doesn’t put pen to paper without a damn good reason, though.” 

“Then there’s also the fact that Kirkwall actually  _ is _ a mess. And somewhere along the line, people have gotten into their heads that I’m the one to ask for help. Can’t help but feel like more than a little of it  _ is _ mine to clean up...”

Ellana nodded. That was a feeling she understood well. How many messes would come back to haunt her in the years to come?

She’d felt a kinship with Hawke. Fate had conspired to push them both down difficult paths. Actually, fate hadn’t really pushed either of them so much as handed them a machete, plopped them down in the middle of a jungle, and wished them all the best hacking their way out. 

They did stumble through, though. Each seemingly whole, but leaving a trail of destruction in their wake. It was foolish to think that none of that would catch up to them. Hawke’s wit and sarcasm were the perfect glossy veneers to smooth over the pain.

“Help your friend, Varric,” Ellana told him. 

“I think everything’s finally just caught up with her,” he said.

“Doesn’t it always, in the end?”

“Yeah… yeah, it does,” Varric said quietly. He quickly shook off the melancholy, in favor of his usual humor. “It’s been good though, Inquisitor. I think I might just miss this place.”

“I don’t know how much you need me around here anymore, though. I’m getting too old for this shit. You know Bianca’s still up for it, but she goes where I go. Besides, you’ve got Curly… Although, I’ll tell you, I don’t know how much longer he’s got here either. I see the way he looks you… I think he’s got bigger fish to fry.”

Ellana rolled her eyes, seeing the turn their conversation was taking. “Yes, it’s all part of his grand plan to take over Thedas. Summary execution for all sarcastic dwarves. Mandatory training in trebuchet calibration. And a mabari for every man, woman and child.”

Varric chuckled, “Don’t act like you don’t know what I mean… He looks at you like something I'd make up for those trashy  _ Swords and Shields _ novels. Seriously, I oughta follow you two around for a day, write it all down, and ship it off to Divine Victoria. She’d eat it up.”

“Nah,” he continued, “I don’t think Curly’s gonna be content with all of this much longer. I think he’d be happy to hang up his sword for a little while. And I think you would, too.”

Those were the parting words of wisdom from the first friend she’d made in Haven. The first friend she’d ever made outside of her clan. A dwarf, an author, a self-proclaimed smut peddler and inveterate liar. One of the most ridiculous and most honest people she had ever met. But someone, and somewhere, else needed him more.   
  


 

* * *

  
  


“Grown men really shouldn’t pout, you know,” Ellana told him. 

“I wouldn’t pout if you didn’t neglect me,” Dorian retorted. “But I know you have better things to occupy your time now, so I suppose I’ll have to forgive you.” 

He was sitting in the red tufted armchair, book in his lap, staring down at her rather imperiously. She was stretched out across the plush rug on the floor of his little corner in the tower, as Dorian went back to reading his book.

“I’m afraid that sort of thing doesn’t work on me, Ell,” he said, before pausing to close the book, finger tucked between the pages to mark his place. Dorian looked down at her sharply. “And don’t get any ideas, either. I know the two of you have probably claimed every other surface in Skyhold, but please don’t defile my poor rug.” 

“We have two perfectly good beds for that,” she smirked, as he rolled his eyes muttering something about them being “nauseating.” 

“You only have yourself to blame…” She sat up and leaned against his leg, propping her chin on Dorian’s knee. “Stop reading and talk to me.” 

“About what? You only talk about one thing, and I think I’ve been quite clear that I’m not in the mood to hear about  _ that  _ today…” 

Ellana decided it was time to be more insistent…  _ again _ . He’d been surly for days. 

“Then let’s talk about you. How are… things?” 

He closed the book again with an exasperated huff, placing it onto the stack beside him. “Things are fine. I am fine. The end. Now, can you please go pester Cullen?” 

Ellana pushed herself up from the floor, and stood hands on her hips, lips pursed. She didn’t take her eyes off of him, as she stepped next to the chair, lifted her foot, and unceremoniously pushed the books over. It was petty and childish, but she was irritated at being rebuffed yet again. 

She turned on her heel and walked away without a word. Halfway down the rotunda steps, she heard him shout, “Wait!”

Looking back up at him, he cut a sad figure. Her friend, her confidant - he looked lost. She sighed, and held her hand out to him.

“Come on,” she said, as he linked his arm in hers, leading him down the spiral staircase. 

Two-thirds of a bottle of Antivan brandy later, Dorian was in a more confessional mood. He sat slumped against the wall of the tiny cellar, Ellana draped across his lap, idly plucking at the leather straps along the legs of his breeches. 

“Does everyone in Tevinter wear trousers that are so complicated?” she said. “I thought everyone went to orgies and things. Wouldn’t these be awfully difficult to take off?”

“We have a separate wardrobe for the orgies, dear.”  

She giggled, a little too enthusiastically, and plucked the brandy from his hand. 

“So…” Ellana began, hesitant. “Is Bull still giving you the silent treatment?” 

Dorian drew in a long breath, exhaling sharply.  _ “Yes.  _ When I tried to talk to him, and explain things… Maker, I don’t know, I thought he’d be  _ angry _ more than anything. But he just said... nothing, really.”

“Nothing?”

“He just stood there. Then he said, “If that’s what you want, fine by me.” And he walked off.”  

“That’s it? Oh, Dorian...” 

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s for the best. Or maybe I’m an idiot. I suppose it doesn’t really matter now, anyways.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, pulling his arm around her, tucking his hand into hers. “I wish I could tell you what to do. I hope I didn’t give you shitty advice. I just want you to be happy. And I want Bull to be happy. I really, really want  _ everyone _ to be happy. Your moustache looks all droopy when you’re sad _.” _

“And you ramble when you’re drunk… No, you didn’t give me shitty advice. I just make shitty decisions.” Dorian took a long drink from the bottle, finishing off the last of the dark amber spirit. “It was nice to wake up next to someone. That I will miss.” 

“I’ll kick Cullen out of bed and you can come sleep with me. We’ll drink more brandy, and you can help me write another naughty letter. Except he already knows how flexible I am now,” she slurred with lazy grin. 

“Maybe another night,” he replied, patting her gently on the arm. 

“Everyone is drifting off… And I feel like you’re drifting off, too.  _ Nuvenan na amahn _ ,  _ lethal’lin…” _

“I’m not going anywhere just yet, don’t worry. But, you have reached the Sleepy Elven Rambling stage of drunkenness. Which means it’s time to deposit you in your bed, lest I incur Our Dear Commander’s wrath.” 

She felt a little guilty - she’d hoped to help her friend with his problems, but had only succeeded in inebriating herself. When he tucked her up under the blankets, though, he did have a smile on his face. 

Cullen was presumably still in his office - he joined her most nights, but not every. She wanted to wait up for him, but her eyelids felt heavy. She thought she’d close them for just a moment…

 

The maids had slipped in to light the fireplace while she was asleep. The bed was still empty, blankets undisturbed beside her. He was busy, and she’d tried to coax him into writing a letter to his sister, too. But she didn’t like to sleep alone. She didn’t like him to sleep alone, either. He’d nod off in his chair, but without ever really resting. Too much time awake and alone didn’t end well. Head aching, hands shaking, stomach heaving - things that came so much more rarely now. She’d make him tea, and knead her fingertips into his temples. She would hate it because he would hate himself. He would hate his weakness and he would bathe in self-loathing. It would pass, it always did. But it broke off little pieces of him in the process, ones that she felt all the more determined to mend. 

Her eyes adjusted to the dim light, and she could see someone sitting in the chair by the hearth. Small, hunched over, hair in his eyes under the wide brim of his hat.

“Cole?” 

“You’re happy,” he said. It was hardly a secret. 

“I am.”

He stood, and nervously paced back and forth along the rug. “He wishes I hadn’t told him.  _ Drinking, drowning, dreaming… _ I’m sorry.”

_ Not this… Please not this,  _ she thought. She  _ was _ happy. She was happy living in the present. She was happy giving small, hopeful considerations toward the future. She was happy leaving the past where it was. 

“You’re sorry… or he’s sorry?”  she asked.

Did it really matter? She didn’t want an apology from either of them. Cole was a product of his nature. And Solas… it was too late for apologies. He could drink and drown all he liked. Dreaming… that was what worried her. To be hounded and harried in the Fade - but he’d left her alone so far, she hoped he would continue to do so. He’d ended it, why bother her now? Cole was cryptic, maybe she was just misunderstanding him.

“Both of us,” he said. 

“There’s nothing to be sorry about, Cole. But… please don’t talk about me anymore, alright?” 

He nodded, and was gone.

The room felt empty and cold and she, too, liked waking up next to someone.

 

* * *

 

 

Cullen was still sitting at his desk, head slumped onto his chest. She had to nudge him gently - he startled easily at times. Jerking awake, eyes ablaze, panic, fear, like something had been chasing him in his dreams. But he woke easily this time, and let her lead him up the ladder. To the loft, with the hole in the ceiling and the bucket on the floor to catch the raindrops and the grey wool blanket on her side of the bed. 

Her fingers worked deftly over the laces and buckles of his armor, and she was glad he didn’t protest. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. 

“There’s nothing to be sorry for.” 

She placed the pieces carefully on the stand in the corner of the room, before guiding him wordlessly to the bed.

She fell asleep in the same way she began her day. Safe and encircled, guided toward simple, solitary dreams where nothing chased after her.   
  
  
  



	16. A Worn Path

The first hint of sun began to peek in. The hole in the roof of his loft was the bane of Josephine’s existence. She’d pestered him about, tried to send workers to repair it, and in the end, gave up when he held firmly that it was perfectly fine as is. Cullen usually complied with her more reasonable requests, so his obstin ance obviously meant that there was something more at play. She was content to allow him his privacy. 

Ellana still didn’t know if it was a need for fresh air or open sky, or something else altogether. 

She was leaving. Again. Orzammar had asked for help, and the Inquisition would oblige. Earthquakes, lyrium, and darkspawn in the Deep Roads. It was a return to form, after months of maintaining order and mindless politicking. The ranks of her inner circle were diminished. Dorian and Bull has settled into an uneasy, and largely silent, coexistence, but she needed them both. Sera wasn’t enthusiastic about the prospect of darkspawn, so Ellana was grateful when she hadn’t refused to come. 

She didn’t want to leave to Cullen, but she felt eager to be away from Skyhold.

Bowing and scraping, endless bland smiles - it was exhausting. The Powers That Be were beginning to grow restless. Humble but hopeful when it began, there were those who thought the Inquisition had now overstayed its welcome. 

A perfect opportunity to prove their usefulness had presented itself, and her advisors seized upon it gratefully. Two of her advisors had, at least. Cullen’s enthusiasm was diminished, knowing it would pull her away indefinitely, and place her in harm’s way once again. 

This was the rhythm of their relationship, though - holding fast when they were together and pushing through when they were apart. 

Sleep wiped away all worry from his face. No heralds, no heretics, no honorifics here. No one needed her but him. The walls held back the sky, and they lived for the moon.  

He was awake, smiling. Kissing her fingertips, her palm, her heart. 

“Better?”

_ Always.  _

Morning light was streaming into the room now, through the hole that couldn’t be covered. She wondered if he was waiting for her to ask about it. Maybe it was something rooted too deep to offer up on his own. She looked at him and saw only strength - did he think telling her would spoil that? 

She stared up, and could see blue through the boards. He followed the line of her sight, but all he saw were the edges, broken and splintered. Thoughts flickered over his face, one after another, as he tried to find the words that would give form to his fear. It was heavy, but he still couldn’t set it down.  

“It helps me to remember…” he said. “If I can feel the air, feel the breeze blow through just a bit, then I know I’m not there anymore.”

_ But of course you aren’t there anymore _ , she thought. It was so easy to live in the present, nestled there against him, shutting out the world and the past. In their bed, they could be selfish. How could old memories cloud their minds, when they were so busy making new ones? It wasn’t fair. They had given enough. They should be able to take, to enjoy, to savour, without being haunted. 

“It was stifling, like I was being smothered. I couldn’t move, couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t do anything but listen to them scream.” He felt for her hand, squeezing it tightly within his own.  

“It’s quieter when you’re here.”

He had wiped away so many of her tears, and she wiped away his now. She couldn’t understand, not truly. She couldn’t erase the past - it was a part of him. But she could gently remind him to open his eyes. 

She remembered him bleeding shame when she tried to comfort him before. Tea was the only currency allowed, so she had picked a mountain of elfroot and bribed a merchant to find the ginger. Even though she loved another then, she’d eased his pain at arms length. 

She was leaving, but not yet.

She pulled herself from the comfort of the blankets, tugging on Cullen’s hand to lead him to the center of room. They sat down together in the jagged patch of light and warmth there on the dusty floorboards. A place in the sun, room for them both.

They whispered promises to one another. She would write. She would keep the coin close to her heart, so luck could guard it in his absence. She would return. He would remember to eat. He would try not to linger in the darkness. He would wait. 

They memorized every shape, committed every detail to memory. The scrape of her teeth against the inside of his bottom lip. The line of muscle that curved down just above his hips - she was sure it had a proper name, but in her mind it was only the sensation of tracing her fingers along it and wanting. His eyes were the color of the Fereldan ale he liked to drink. She’d put on extra perfume before she joined him in bed the last night, so that he could smell cypress and vandal aria long after she was gone. 

The wood was rough against his back. He gripped her hips too tightly as she sank down. She was desire. Never a demon, though - she was his Herald. Andraste would have to find another. She didn’t kneel for the Maker, but for  _ him _ . His fingers no longer clasped in prayer. Instead they skimmed along the barest edge, drawing the shuddering breath from her lungs. She uttered a Canticle of sighs and moans that begged him to break her. Pulling away at the last moment, he spilled into his hand. They made each other feel bold, but they still couldn’t afford to be reckless.

And then it was time. Bags packed, horses saddled, quiet farewells in front of an audience. He held her face in his hands, and pressed his forehead to hers.  _ Let them watch.  _ He didn’t care.

“Be safe,” he said.

Two of the soldiers at the gates fought to suppress their grins, casting knowing glances at each other. Their Commander, the snarling mabari of a man, standing before them now tamed and gentled. A runner watched from the battlements before turning away, feeling voyeuristic at witnessing something so intimate. The daughter of a maid peeked out from the stables. She’d been sent out with a sackful of oats, and sighed as if she were seeing a fable played out before her - the dashing knight embracing the beautiful elven princess. The horsemaster scowled, and shooed her back to the kitchens. 

They watched, but they couldn’t really see.

 

* * *

 

The weather held, and she was relieved it wasn’t raining. Bull was stolid, and Sera was happy to jump in puddles, but Dorian would be miserable if it rained. He already was miserable enough as it was, even though the sun was shining. 

Dorian, her  _ lethal’lin _ , her kin. She missed his laughter and his sharp wit. He was ill-suited to brooding. Why had it been easier, in those days past when everything else was so much harder? There had been less time to think, and a greater imperative to find joy where they could. 

Ellana’s mind wandered as the day passed. She tried to move alongside Dorian, but he would give his mount a firm nudge every time she drew close, pulling ahead and away from her. His expression was fixed in a frustrated scowl. She noticed Bull glance forward at him frequently, his humor wilting slightly every time he saw the look on Dorian’s face. 

When it grew too dark to ride safely, they stopped to make camp for the night. An Inquisition base was already set up at the fissure, so they were travelling light in the hopes of arriving as quickly as possibly. This meant they’d only brought two tents. Before it would have been a given that Bull and Dorian took one. But obviously that wasn’t an option now. 

Bull was setting up one tent, while Sera set up the other. Dorian was sitting off to the side, chewing on a mouthful of dried ram’s meat. He was aggressively ignoring all three of them, his back turned to the tents and to the fire Ellana was building. 

None of them were really sure what they were walking into with this mission, other than the potential for darkspawn. No one was better equipped or more aware of their dangers than dwarves, living under the constant threat. But even with that assurance, darkspawn were an unpleasant prospect.

From a tactical perspective, Dorian and Bull giving anything less than their full cooperation would endanger them all. She needed trust to keep them all safe. Their distance was a liability. It was a cold and objective way to look at it, but objectivity kept everyone alive, more often than not. 

However, from the other perspective, that of a friend, she needed to try to help mend this if she could. They both deserved more than bitterness and spite. Maybe it wouldn’t be a grand reunion. But at the very least, she hoped there could be an honest ending. They could part with an understanding, and an appreciation of they what they’d had, an “it was nice while it lasted.” 

Dorian had retreated, and she didn’t think he was going to be very receptive to anything she said. So, she thought it better to try her luck with Bull. The tents were set up, and Ellana had used her old bits of flint and steel to start the fire. 

She stood tall as she spoke. “Alright, tents are set up. Bull, you’ll bunk with me. Sera, you’re with Dorian.” She looked them both in the eye, her face making it clear that she would brook no argument. Bull simply shrugged, and unpacked his bedroll. 

Ellana had learned early on that if you speak with enough confidence, people are far more likely to follow along. Or maybe they were simply too tired to argue. Sera rolled her eyes, clearly not relishing the prospect of being stuck with a surly Dorian for the night. But, she didn’t protest. 

Sera took first watch, and Dorian slinked off to his tent alone. Bull followed soon after to the one opposite, while Ellana remained sitting beside the fire. 

“Not being real subtle…” Sera said. 

Ellana sighed, “Well, neither are they. I have to try to do something… “

Sera shrugged, and resumed waxing the string of her bow. 

Ellana slipped into the tent, and Bull was already bedded down. She pulled off her boots and stripped off her leathers, with quickly slipping into a wrinkled tunic she pulled from her bag. Settling down beside him, she heard him exhale, a deep rumble reverberating through his chest.

“I see what you’re trying to do here, Boss.” 

“Well, that should make this easy, then,” she quipped. 

He gave a snort, “Easy? And here I thought you knew Dorian…” 

Sarcasm was clearly not the best approach. 

“I  _ do _ know Dorian. I know that deep down, he still doubts that he deserves anything from either of us. He still sees himself as flawed,” she said.

“You think I don’t know that already? Listen, I knew from the start. He’s got charm in spades, but I knew what was underneath it all. And I also know he’s gonna go back to Tevinter. He’s got unfinished business. I get it. I respect the hell out of it.”

Bull continued, “But, saying he “doesn’t think it’s going to work out”? Nah, that’s bullshit… That’s him deciding that  _ I’m _ not going to want to make it work. And I thought we were past that. So, if that’s what let’s him sleep at night? Fine, he can have it. But I’m not going to feed into it. You wanna let him pull that shit with you? That’s your problem.”

Bull was clearly not pulling any punches. And what he said was perfectly true. How many times did Dorian have to prove to himself that he was wanted?  _ We’re all fucking broken, in our own ways, _ she thought. How, after so much time, could he  _ still _ think they would grow tired of him? That they were moments away from casting him off? Strike first, before they strike you. 

“I just… I don’t want things to be like this between you two,” Ellana said.

Bull shook his head, horns tilting back and forth. “I know you’ve found your happy. And I’m happy for you, really. It’s a good fit, for both of you. But you can’t fix everyone else. You don’t need to worry about us keeping it together down there, Boss. We’re going to the Deep Roads. I’m not gonna fuck around with darkspawn. We go in, we come out. This bullshit with Dorian? Not gonna be a problem. I know how to compartmentalize.” 

This wasn’t what she’d hoped for, but it was something. “I appreciate that, Bull… I’m still going to try to talk to Dorian, though.”

“You’re welcome to try,” Bull said, pulling the blanket up over his large frame. “G’night, Boss.” 

 

\--

 

She jerked awake a few hours later, Sera nudging her gently to wake her for her turn. She was on second watch. Her heart racing, mind clouded with the haze of a dream she couldn’t quite remember. Ellana crept out of the tent, trying not to wake Bull, and took up her place around the fire. They were camped near lake Calenhad, not far from Kinloch Hold… She missed him already. She missed his warmth and his voice and his touch. She sat by the flames, still squirming, still unable to shake the sense that someone was watching. And she missed, most of all, feeling safe. 

  
  



	17. As I Write This Letter

Cullen,

We arrived this morning at the Inquisition base camp above the fissure. Scout Harding apprised us of the situation; three more earthquakes have occured just since we arrived. Josephine’s reports were correct - there has been extensive damage to the lyrium mines. It threatens the entire supply chain.

They lowered us down into the crevasse, where we met Shaper Valta. It is an eerie place, full of echoes, the howl of the wind, the sound of water trickling down the walls of stone. Dim rays of the sun still reach us, which oddly enough, Valta steadfastly avoids looking at. Apparently even glimpsing a sliver of the sky would be enough for her to lose her place in Orzammar society.

She informed us that the earthquakes had shattered a seal keeping the darkspawn at bay. The Legion of the Dead has been unable to handle the situation so far, and the Grey Wardens aren’t answering their calls for aid. Sections of the Deep Roads have been exposed by the shaking.

The ground rumbles yet again, and rock slides come without warning. It is… honestly, it’s unlike anything I’ve ever felt. A sickness in the pit of your stomach, then suddenly feeling completely off balance. The sound is deafening, like thunder.

The Inquisition is their only hope at this point. Much as I may not wish to spend my days underground, they need help. And the darkspawn are a threat to us all.

We are leaving now to aid the Legion. I will be careful.

I miss you, _ma_ _'vheraan_.

 

-Ellana

 

* * *

 

 

Inquisitor,

I have received your initial report. The situation sounds grim indeed.

If the darkspawn are beyond even the capabilities of the Legion of the Dead, then it is a far more grave situation than we anticipated. The dwarves as a whole are far better equipped at dealing with darkspawn. They are a constant threat to their way of life, unlike those of us on the surface. I have only heard reports and rumors of the Legion, but their skill and devotion to fighting is legendary.

You must be vigilant. There is a constant risk of contracting the Blight when fighting darkspawn. Which is why forces like the Grey Wardens and the Legion exist in the first place.

I miss you as well, _ma'harausha._

 

-Commander Cullen Rutherford

 

* * *

 

 

To the Esteemed Leader of the Inquisition’s Forces, Commander Cullen STANTON Rutherford,

Since your title has gently reminded me that these are official reports, I have adjusted my greeting to reflect an appropriate degree of formality.

However, your latest choice in pet name definitely does not reflect _any_ formality. Or decency. Honestly, who is your new tutor? Because I am quite sure that you did not pick up that phrase from dear old Sister Maeve. I think she’s probably blushing in her grave. Mind you, I’m not complaining.

We were successful in aiding the Legion of the Dead, and have contained the immediate darkspawn threat. It was a hard fought victory, but the Legion lives up to their reputation. We set charges to seal the entrance, and hopefully that will keep it closed for a long time to come.

The Legion is led by Lieutenant Renn. He is blunt in that distinctly dwarven way, but not without a sense of humor. I found it a pleasant surprise, for someone who has dedicated their life to fighting darkspawn. He and Shaper Valta have spent the past three years together reclaiming areas in the Deep Roads. I cannot imagine spending my life underground, in the deepest reaches, under constant threat. But I forget, they are dwarven, and this is the only life they have known. I miss the sun and sky already.

More earthquakes have come, and Valta and Renn have both remarked on a “ringing” accompanying them. This connection they have to the stone seems so alien to me. I suppose is not so different from the connection the Dalish feel to the natural order on the surface, though. I know others find our reverence for the halla to be more than a little odd, but it is quite ordinary to us.

Valta feels these earthquakes are deliberate, that there is an intelligence behind them. She has found ancient texts, describing what she calls Titans. She says they are supposedly giant creatures “singing in the stone.” These texts predate the first Blight, and have never been mentioned before in any of the dwarven history.

I don’t know what to make of this. I am completely out of my depth, as are the rest of us. Sera has no great appreciation for ancient dwarven lore, needless to say, and Dorian is barely speaking to any of us. Bull offers what he can. I really have no option but to take Valta at her word. Renn is of a more… pragmatic mind, and he trusts her knowledge, so I choose to do the same.

Perhaps ask Leliana to speak to Dagna, see if she can offer any insight.

 

-Inquisitor Ellana Nehnsuledin Lavellan

(Don’t be too cross with me - it is lonely in the Deep Roads, and teasing you brings me comfort!)

 

* * *

 

 

Krem,

Tell Dalish to knock off the elven lessons with the Commander. But make sure she tells Cullen what that phrase really means first.

Also, you should be there when she does. You can thank me later.

 

-Bull

 

* * *

 

 

Ellana,

I am relieved you are well, and hope you remain cautious.

Leliana has spoken with Dagna, but she had no appreciable insight. At least none that made any sense to either of us, but she found the possibilities exciting. Exciting for Dagna is not always a good thing, though. Please be careful.

Regarding my choice of pet name, as you call it, I can only offer my sincerest apologies. Krem insisted I was “sulking” (though I most certainly wasn’t), and convinced me to join the Chargers for a few drinks at the Rest. I may have had more than a few, and also may have mentioned to Dalish my efforts to learn your shared language… I’m not sure which she found more amusing - lying to me about the meaning of the phrase, or telling me the truth.

I cannot begrudge you any amusement when you place yourself in such danger. But I hope you will note my change in tone.

 

-Cullen

 

* * *

 

 

Cullen,

We are safe and well. Renn has reminded us all to keep our mouths shut, quite literally. There is a story to go along with that, but it will have to wait until I return...

We fought another wave of darkspawn before entering Heidrun Thaig. Bull found it particularly exhilarating, but had a close scrape with an ogre. (We are all fine, please do not worry.) On the bright side, this seems to have finally broken Dorian’s silence. A book was found on one of the darkspawn, which was written by one of the dwarven Paragons. According to Valta, it says, “I awoke to the singing stone. Our kingdom trembled at the Titan’s hymn.” She seems to think these Titans, whatever they are, can “sing” through the stone, whereas the dwarves can only listen.

I hear only silence, so I don’t know what to think.

The deeper we go, the more remarkable the sights become. The sky is long gone. The cavernous chambers and giant statues of the Paragons are incredible. I am beginning to understand how the dwarves revere the stone. I long for the sun, but there is a unique beauty still this deep underground.

Valta says the situation in Orzammar is grim - there are food shortages and riots. Is there anything the Inquisition can do to help?  Josephine would know best how to negotiate with the dwarves, and if they would accept our aid at all. They only approached us as a last resort.

The further we venture, the more I learn of our companions. Renn told us about some of the traditions of the Legion of the Dead. They commit for the remainder of their lives - there is no leaving. Once they join, they celebrate their funerals, because they _are_ dead as far as dwarven society is concerned. I made the mistake of asking Renn why he joined, realizing it was far too personal a question as soon as the words left my mouth. He simply said, “I had a responsibility.”

He and Valta seem to be close. Three years fighting by someone’s side will do that. (Not that you or I would know anything about that, right?) This assignment in the Deep Roads wasn’t a promotion for Valta, though. She lost her position in the Shaperate because she refused to remove a record. For all their adherence to traditions, apparently dwarven aristocracy are not above bending the rules.

We are resting here for few days, before we move deeper underground, past the Deep Roads. I’m not sure when we will return to camp, but know that I will be safe. I promise.

 

-Ellana

 

* * *

 

 

Ellana,

Past the Deep Roads? What does that even mean? Perhaps the dwarves were mistaken, surely this is simply another ruin that has not yet been explored. Did Valta give you no indication as to what she expects to find there?

I have passed your information on to the Ambassador. She said she will do what she can.

How can you go _beyond_ the Deep Roads? Please do not take insult, but I think you must have misunderstood.

Please send a report as soon as you return to camp.

I know you will be safe. I know those around you will protect you. But I worry no less.

 

-Cullen

 

* * *

 

 

Mia,

To answer your questions briefly:

  1. Yes, I know you have not seen me since I left Kirkwall.
  2. Yes, I did visit Honnleath.
  3. Yes, I am eating.
  4. No, there is no “important news” that I have not told you.



With regards to your first question, I know it has been a long time. I have been busy - you are familiar with this organization called the Inquisition, yes? I do hope to visit soon. Truly. I know I have said that several times already, but I do mean it. I may also bring someone with me. I hope.

How in Andraste’s name is Old Lady Whitby still even alive? She was already ancient when I left! And why are you still getting gossip from Honnleath after all this time? Maker’s breath… Yes, I stayed at the inn, and yes I was with a woman. That will have to suffice.

I know what you are angling at… No, there is not “news” in the sense you are thinking. There is someone. She is very good at making sure I eat.

Give my love to Rosalie and Branson.

 

Your brother,

Cullen

 

* * *

 

 

Cullen,

I have no idea when you will get this… But I have first watch, and writing to you is comforting.

Lieutenant Renn is dead. I do not know what we have stumbled into. There are no darkspawn, but something else entirely.

The tunnels beyond the Deep Roads were pitch black at first, we could hardly see. Just the echo of water dripping off the stalactites. We saw their eyes - glowing blue in the darkness, then the ground trembled again.

We were ambushed - they shot Renn before we could even act. He fought bravely before he succumbed. But he was already dead, wasn’t he? Valta said he was a cobbler before, and joined the Legion to pay off his father’s debts, so their family could keep their caste. It’s always obligation in the end.

We found lines of lyrium, words carved into the stone walls. Valta was able to read them. _Sha-brytol_ is what they are called, “revered defenders”, protectors of the Titans, she thinks. They are dwarves (were dwarves?), but lyrium is bonded into their weapons, their armor, even their skin.

We tried to keep moving forward. The sha-brytol blew up their own bridge to stop us… We found more of the words carved into the wall, talking about the Titans, how they shape the world, “sculpt the world.” Is that what these earthquakes are? I cannot even fathom what kind of creature could shake the ground beneath us to shape the world around us.  

How is it that the dwarves know none of this? A people that records their history so meticulously, yet they know nothing of the Titans. The earthquakes grow louder and harder the further we go.

These massive caverns… it is unreal. Veins of lyrium like the roots of trees, little bits of it flickering above us look like stars in the night sky. We came to an underground ocean, waves crashing onto the rocks. But the water shimmered, strangely blue. What is this place?

The sha-brytol kept coming. Setting up barrier after barrier. We finally have broken through the last, and are trying to get some rest before carrying on.

Valta thinks this is punishment for the dwarves mining lyrium. She thinks we are getting close to the source. Whatever that is…

Your coin is pressed to my lips, and it makes me brave.

 

-Ellana

 

* * *

 

 

Cullen,

I don’t know what I am seeing. It is a city underground, but not like the Deep Roads. Buildings and bridges, constructed around the great pillars of stone that hang from the ceiling of this place. A cave? A cavern? Those words do not even come close to conveying the enormity of the space. There are trees and plants, and I swear I can hear birdsong. Below is only a glowing mist. How is this possible? Did the sha-brytol build it? Or was it already here before them?

Valta is convinced that this place... that we are _inside_ of a Titan. The text before said only the pure may enter the body of a Titan. Perhaps the quakes are caused by our disruption, spoiling the purity of this place. How can we be inside of a living being? All I have are more questions, and what answers are offered make no sense.

In the center of this cavern is what Valta calls the “source.” It is huge and blue and glowing - is this the heart of a Titan? Veins are connected to it, radiating out into the stone around it.

We found more words carved into the wall. The path of purity. The Titan’s blood - the sha-brytol come here to drink it. Lyrium is the blood of a Titan. This feels like madness.

They attack us more and more now. We have fought them back again, and rest before we approach the source. How can I see the heart of a creature, when I still cannot fathom what it even looks like? It is too large to imagine. I have seen so many impossible things, yet I still cannot wrap my mind around this.

I do not know what will come. This is my last piece of parchment. _Ma’vheraan, ma’sa’lath, ma’sal’shiral -_ there is still so much I haven’t said.

_Ar lath ma, ar lath ma, ar lath ma._

 

* * *

 

Commander,

I have received _all_ of your messages.

As I previously replied, multiple times, I will send word as soon as the Inquisitor returns.

We do not know what is down there. We cannot risk sending in another party.

I understand that she is a very important member of this organization. I know that we all worry for her safety. I know that the Inquisition would be devastated if anything were to happen to her. I would humbly remind the members of the Inquisition, though, that she has gone up against far worse odds, many times before.

A raven will be in the air the second I lay eyes on her.

 

-Scout Harding

 

* * *

 

 

Cullen,

I am back at camp. I am fine. I am exhausted, but Harding shoved a quill into my hand the minute I set foot here.

Valta is staying below. I will explain the rest when I return. I am adding on the other reports I was unable to send while we were there. I am safe and well, I promise.

We hope to return in a few days time. I hope you can read this. I can barely keep my eyes open, so I only pray it’s legible.

I miss you. I love you.

 

-Ellana

 

 


	18. In Unmeasured Realms

Cullen had nodded off at his desk, reading over the message once again - _I am safe and well, I promise._ He’d lost track of how many times his eyes had gone over those words, trying to pull every scrap of detail from the parchment. They had made promises, though. He would do his best to keep his. He ate, he worked, he tried to rest. It wasn’t easy. It was harder still when days, then weeks, dragged on without word. He knew he should just climb up the ladder to his bed, but sleep claimed him where he sat, letter clutched in his hand.

A sharp rapping at the door, and relief washed over him. Again he wondered, _How many more times must we do this?_ She was here now, though. Small mercies.

She slid down from her mount, and nearly collapsed into his arms. He didn’t care what any of them thought - he desperately wanted them all _gone_. No one prodding or peppering her with questions. No one fussing over her or fighting for her attention. Right then, he’d have settled for an empty barn and a clean pile of hay in the corner. Naked and sated, plucking bits of straw out of one another’s hair afterward.

“I missed you.”

He felt the same, but those words hardly seemed sufficient. She moved in closer to him, sliding her arms around his waist. He felt her hips shift, imperceptible to those around them. It was painfully obvious to him. He’d not returned the sentiment aloud, but his body made it clear just how much he had missed her. The slightest hint of friction set him on edge, sucking a deep breath in through his nose. Her hands moved forward onto his hips, as his eyes darted around. No one was paying much attention. They were all absorbed in their own exhaustion. He tentatively rocked against her again, smiling when he heard the small sigh from her lips.

Standing on tiptoe, she whispered into his ear, “Your bed is closer.”

The bed, the hayloft, the top of the battlements - he didn’t care where. He had half a mind to hoist her over his shoulder and carry her back to his quarters. There was little wisdom in that idea, and even less respect. Generally those who handled the Inquisitor in such a way received either laughter or a dagger in their vital organs. She could be a dangerous woman - Cullen was quite fond of this aspect.

Other women had batted their eyes at him when he arrived in Haven. But she didn’t simper or swoon. She wasn’t coquettish or coy. She had faults and doubts, but was brave and focused. He admired her, at first. Admiration turned to attraction. Attraction that led to disappointment, yes, but the admiration remained still. Most important of all, though, was the respect. It didn’t meant they always agreed, it didn’t mean he never found her incredibly frustrating. But it formed the foundation for what came later.

He respected her enough to let her grab his hand and lead him out of the stables, rather than taking her against the side of the barn, in front of the Maker and half the Inquisition.

The moment his door was shut, their lips were sealed together. He had to remind himself to breathe. Air seemed unnecessary, whereas the taste of mouth was absolutely essential. He could feel the snarls in her long hair, as his fingers laced through it. He could smell smoke and ash and sweat on her skin. He would smooth a soft cloth and cypress-scented soap over every inch of her, carefully tease every knot from the chestnut waves.

_Later._

He couldn’t wrap his fingers around the laces and clasps fast enough. Normally, he was fastidious, carefully untying and unbuckling, placing the armor neatly on its stand in the corner. Instead he let it fall to the floor with a loud clang. She was unfastening and peeling herself out of supple leather breeches as he raced to shed his own.

“Do you need some help?” she smirked.

“I think you’ve already done enough,” he said, hand grazing over his length.

“Have I?”

Cullen quickly learned that stonework was surprisingly difficult to grip. His hands slid over the surface of the wall, seeking purchase as he tried to brace himself. She _had_ done enough, and this was too much. Her lips around him, tongue dragging along slowly. He was never going to last at this rate.

He placed his hand gently on her cheek and pulled his hips away.

“Maker, I wanted us to take our time, to be soft with you…”

“I don’t _want_ slow or soft,” her voice barely audible.

“Good, because I don’t think I can be either now.”

The papers had scarcely touched the floor before he pinned her onto the worn wood. Page after page had passed over this surface. Hours spent scribbling out replies, in an effort to stave off sleep. All cast off and scattered now. Only she was sprawled across the desk, a request he was eager to answer. Tired and travel worn, but a smile on her lips for him.

His knees would ache, but she spread for him so willingly. No more nights alone, eyes squeezed shut, imagining her. She was wet and waiting, and that sigh when he slid into her was music to his ears. He assumed a familiar position - propped upright on one arm, the other tucked neatly behind the small of her back. Before it had been for control and restraint. Now it was for leverage.

“Is this what you want?” Every inch of him, desperate to feel her.

“Fuck, _yes,"_ she moaned. Her legs wrapped tight around his waist, she angled her hips up to meet every thrust.

There was always an element of emotion when they made love - something he was trying to convey by moving carefully and cautiously. Trying to show that he cared for her enough to hold back. Putting her above his own base desires.

But they weren’t making love, and he’d lost all sense of restraint. He devoured. And she begged for more.

He would be soft and sweet and gentle and slow next time.

“Yes,” she chanted, over and over. Yes, harder. Yes, faster. Yes, make her feel every ounce of the longing that has tormented him these past weeks. Her back arched, and a look of pure pleasure swept over her face. He would have her like this every day - worry and strain stripped from her, replaced with the relief that only he could give. He would give anything, everything, whatever she demanded. Just let him be the only one. Let him have her. Maker, let him keep her.

He felt his own end coming close, and she came back to him again. Tongue tracing his lips, legs squeezing around him again, she dragged him into the void with her. He slid his hand around, and began to pull away to finish himself.

“No, don’t. Stay with me,” her heels digging into his back.

How could he ever refuse her?

He gripped the edge of the desk, knuckles white as he made a final push, spilling himself inside of her. He felt mindless and senseless, but she was his anchor.

  
  


“Hay would’ve had more cushion…” Cullen mumbled sometime later.

He felt her shake with laughter, lying there on top of him. His back was stiff, skin was sticky, but neither of them had wanted to break the spell just yet.

“Hay pokes you in very uncomfortable places. Right now, though, I really want a bath.”

“I asked the servants to begin preparing one as soon as you crossed the bridge,” he replied, and received an enthusiastic kiss for his efforts.

A dash through the darkness to her quarters, and they were both grateful that Skyhold was largely empty at that hour. The water was still hot as they sank into it. Cullen began his ministrations, just as he’d promised himself, washing away their weeks apart. He poured water carefully over her hair, and was about to reach for the wooden comb set out next to large copper tub. But her head had begun to droop, her limbs had gone slack.

It could wait. They would have tomorrow.

  


* * *

 

 

Two days after they returned from the Deep Roads, Dorian made his decision. It was time. He knew he would return to Minrathous eventually. Maevaris had been pestering him for some time now. He’d found his resolve and resignation during those weeks underground. They had discovered more knowledge that should be shared. The inherent superiority of his homeland needed to be taken down a peg… or several. He thought that a modicum of humility could push them toward a better path. He believed little in himself at times, but he did believe in the potential of the Imperium and its citizens.

The truth was, Ellana didn’t need him anymore. He didn’t mean it in a self-deprecating sort of way, for once. She had Cullen, and she deserved to dote on him and their happiness. Dorian was the squeaky wheel now. He was walking in circles, wearing a rut into the ground. He needed to move forward. If he didn’t go now, he worried that he never would. Because he knew he wouldn’t find a better friend. Staying, laughing, drinking, gossiping with her would be easy. Leaving was hard. It was a hard decision that had led him here, to the Inquisition. Easy decisions would only hold him in place.

The chaos of the past weeks had wrought a rather miraculous resolution between him and Bull. He remembered the absolute terror that had overwhelmed him, as he saw the darkspawn ogre fling Bull against the stone. He was fine. It was all fine. They killed the monster, business as usual. But it had shaken him. For that split second, he thought Bull was going to die. He thought Bull was going to leave forever without knowing how much he meant to him.

“Resolution” may not have been the right word for it. That implied a solution had been found, when that was not the case. But he had talked, and Bull had listened. He’d admitted his fears. Bull had said that he knew Dorian would leave eventually. Some people would find each other, grow together, twine around one another. Others simply walked side by side for a little while, enjoying the companionship until their paths diverged. They both expressed hope that their paths would cross again.

The last end to tie up was Ellana. Tact was never really Dorian’s strong suit, so the topic was not broached as gently as he’d hoped. They were having tea on her balcony, a familiar brew he’d procured from a friend in Qarinus. It was far different from the herbal, faintly medicinal Dalish blends that she usually preferred. This tea was laden with spices, the aroma of cloves, cardamom and star anise wafted from the small porcelain cups. The mountain air was cool and crisp around them - the weather was one thing he would not miss about Skyhold. He’d been called a snake before, but in this respect, it was an apt comparison. He relished the thought of baking in the hot sun again.

“So… much as I love slaying darkspawn and spending weeks underground discovering the mysteries of dwarven creation, I have been offered a new position. A few brave Tevinters are finally beginning to warm to the idea of _change_. Who better to usher it in than me? Maevaris has been after me for months, and I really can’t put her off any longer.”

 _Smooth. Very smooth._ He was cocking this up completely. And yet, the dreaded look of surprise, of disappointment, didn’t come. She simply peered at him over the gilded  rim of the tea cup with a bittersweet smile.

“You know I’m going to miss you,” she finally said, her expression faltering.

Tears were threatening now. “No, you won’t… You have better things to occupy your time, rather than sitting on the floor of the cellar and getting drunk with me. But, I will miss you, too. Besides, it’s not like you won’t see me ever again. I’m sure I’ll need a favor from the Powerful and Almighty Inquisitor soon enough.”

“And,” he continued, “you can always visit me, and we can get drunk on the floor of _my_ cellar, for a change. Tevinter Red as far as the eye can see. You liver would be weeping in agony by the end.”

She may be the Inquisitor, and the friend of a well-heeled altus. But she was also an elf - an undesirable thing to be in Tevinter. Or all too desirable, which could be even worse. The look they exchanged made it clear they both knew this.

Ellana was hopeful that change would come to the Imperium. She had faith that Dorian would do his best to bring it about. But change was usually a very slow process. Particularly when the status quo was skewed sharply in favor of those in power. Convincing people to _give up_ control was a tall order.

He left three days later, and Ellana insisted on following him to Jader to meet the boat. She kissed him on the cheek, and cried when he walked up the gangplank.

  


* * *

 

 

The wary expression on her advisors faces harkened back to the days of Corypheus. Leliana was stony and implacable. Cullen’s spine was stiff, lips set in a firm line. Josephine looked like an anxious mother, trying for all the world to appear as if everything was fine, when clearly it was not.

The change was not lost on Ellana. She felt a twinge of frustration, that after _years_ working together, they still looked at her like a child they were afraid to disappoint. It was an ungenerous thought. But still, the feeling set her on edge. Was the world crashing down around their ears _again?_

“Well, judging from the looks on your faces, I’m guessing it’s not good news?”

“It’s not _bad_ news, necessarily,” Josephine said. “And nothing has been decided yet, officially.”

“Perhaps not officially, but Divine Victoria cannot stall for the Inquisition any longer. Both Orlais and Ferelden are growing impatient.” Leliana said.

And so the other shoe dropped.

“There has been pushback against the Inquisition from the very start. Once the threat that Corypheus presented became apparent, we were able to garner a large amount of support. And defeating him cemented that support in many ways. It showed that faith in the Inquisition was not misplaced,” the Ambassador continued.

“There have always been questions about what our future would be, and we have discussed that. Recently, though, those questions have become more pressing. Divine Victoria has been adamant that she would protect us from the political infighting for as long as possible. But, it has reached a point at which we cannot reasonably expect her to shield us from that any longer.”

Leliana put it bluntly, “Orlais would prefer to incorporate the Inquisition into its own forces. And Ferelden would like to see it disbanded altogether. They are pushing for a decision to be made. We expect Divine Victoria to call an Exalted Council soon.”

 _The beginning of the end,_ Ellana thought. It wasn’t surprising, there had been hints and rumbles for a long time. But this was official, or nearly so, despite Josie’s insistence. She knew Cassandra would buy them as much time as she could, but it would be poor repayment of her support to drag this out even longer.

“So then the question is - what do we want? Do we assimilate or do we disband?” she asked.

Leliana and Josephine looked at each other uncomfortably, while Cullen crossed his arms and stared fixedly on the table.

“That is not a decision we can make, Inquisitor.” Josephine was quick to add, “And perhaps it may not come to either of those options.”

“It most likely will, though,” Leliana interjected. “And unlike the rest of southern Thedas, we have all agreed that we will trust whatever decision you make.”

The vote of confidence was not lost on Ellana. But she also couldn’t help but feel that a difficult choice was being passed off onto her, once again.

Cullen had been silent throughout the entire discussion.

“What does the Commander of our forces think about all of this?” she asked, with no small measure of hesitation. His frustration and anger were apparent. But beyond that? She had no clue what his thoughts might be.

“I believe that we have covered everything that needs to be discussed collectively.” Josephine interrupted, casting a wary glance at Cullen. “Leliana and I have other duties to attend to, yes?”

The two women made their exit, while the Commander stood in sullen silence.

“Cullen, what is the matter?”

“What is the matter… Is that you have once again returned from putting yourself in harm’s way. Did Orzammar call on Ferelden for aid? Did they call on Orlais for aid? No, they called on _the Inquisition_ . They called on _you!_ So while they are all bickering amongst themselves, _we_ are out actually making a difference. When is the last time Empress Celene spent six weeks underground fighting darkspawn? And yet they think they can simply decide that the sword we wield is too sharp for their liking.”

“And...” Cullen hesitated. “And I have to read their letters, and listen to their envoys. I nearly punched some smug Fereldan bastard in the face… He just barely stopped himself from saying “knife ear” in my presence. You are only useful to them when they can hold the leash. You were only good enough for Gaspard when he could hold you up as a puppet and pull the strings, use you as a tool to further his own agenda.”

“Demons, darkspawn… They’re quite content to let you do their dirty work, clean up the messes none of them could be bothered to take care of. But, to give up an inch of power or position to you, to any of us? _That_ is too much for them.”

“ _That_ is what is the matter,” he spat.

They stood silently for a moment, until his seething waned, and his breath slowed.

She sighed, “Cullen, I’ve been called far worse… You know that. And you know that _all_ of this is a game to them. Pieces being moved around on the board. We can either play, or forfeit. Maybe we won’t have to decide right now, but we will have to eventually.”

“How can you be so calm?” he asked.

“Because cleaning up all their bodies would be very messy,” she said, testing the waters with a grin.

There it was - the scar above his lip twitched ever so slightly.

“Go on now, I see it. You’re trying not to laugh, but you’re very, very bad at hiding it, you know. I win.”

“And what would you have for you prize?” Cullen asked, smiling openly now.

She tapped a finger on her lip, and hummed. “A drink at the Rest. With the Chargers. And I want Dalish to recount the precise shade of crimson you turned when she told you what _ma’harausha_ really meant.”

“Maker-”

“And _then_ ,” she said, cutting off his objections. “if you’re very, very good, I might _show_ you what it means later.”

 


	19. Hung Up in the Ivory

  
The heat that summer was stifling. The air hung thick around them as they walked through the forest. Pitch pine and sweet gum and sugar maple. They grew right up to the edge of the river, wedged between the huge grey-brown boulders, hugging against the cool water. The trees seemed as thirsty and desperate to escape the unbearable heat as her clan.

Sycamore were her favorite, their mottled, peeling bark, gently cupped leaves with jagged edges that looked like rows of sharp teeth. They were fearsome trees, the protectors of the woods, to a child’s mind. She sat on her father’s shoulders, legs dangling onto his chest as they walked the path down to the river’s edge. She would bend low, tucking her hands under his chin, to swoop under the hanging branches. Giggling with glee, perched so high above the ground - unafraid because of course _babae_ would never drop her.

Colorful blankets spread out in a patchwork across the top of the high, flat plane of stone. Clothes eagerly stripped off and cast aside, bodies jumping into the water. A chorus of laughter and splashing filled her ears.

Her toes tightly gripped the edge of the boulder, and she heard his voice below. She looked over the edge, heart racing. The water was still - a gentle pool in front of the massive rock jutting out into the river’s flow, shielding them from the strong current. The older children had all jumped without fear.

It seemed so high and she felt so small. But he smiled up at her, dark brown eyes beaming. “Jump down, _da’len_. Be brave,” he said.

Sweat trickled down her forehead, fingers pinched firmly against her nostrils. She pitched her body forward and felt the rough limestone scrape across the soles of her feet one last time. Falling, flying, her breath caught in her throat.

She plunged into the deep, emerald green glow - shockingly, blessedly frigid. Silence, only the whoosh and churn of the water around her, and she forced herself to still. Floating, rising, her small body buoyant in the river, _babae’s_ arms waiting above her.

“You did it!” he shouted and his face was so proud and joyful. He held her tight, his skin bronzed by the summer sun, starkly contrasting her own, pink and freckled. _Fair like your beautiful mamae…_ he would say, eyes misting over. She wished she could remember her.

He called her _da’manean_ that day, his “little fish.” He held her hands, as she kicked her legs furiously, water splashing in her wake as he gently pulled her along. Lips pursed and cheeks puffed out as she blew bubbles, and he smiled.

They stood together, warmth radiating from the rock, as he wrapped the bright blue blanket around her. Her face crumpled into a frown as he rubbed the cloth through her mop of wet curls. But it broke into a gap-toothed grin again as she sat in his lap. He pressed a seed cake into her palm, and she leaned against him. Sticky honey dripping from her fingers, this was the happiest day.

Watching the school of minnows, hundreds of tiny fish no bigger than her thumb, moving together - synchronous and undulating. She wanted so badly to catch them, but they darted away every time, impossibly fast, streaks of silver.

“Come on, _babae_!” she called to him, hopping between the stones along the river’s edge. He sighed, but his little fish was ready to paddle her fins again.

She lied on her back, and his hands were strong beneath her. One placed gently under her head, his arm spread under the bend of her knees. His face was calm. Her arms outstretched wide, tiny waves radiating outwards, she let herself go limp.

Eyes closed, the sun had moved across the sky, and the boulder cast shade upon them now. Dark and floating, she felt his hands slowly pull away. She was scared, her muscles tightened and her body went rigid. “Relax, da’len. I’m here,” he said, as her arms flailed in the water, legs weighted down, and she felt herself begin to sink.

 

 

“I’m here,” Cullen said.

The sky was a peak of drab green canvas above her. His arms were wrapped around her, over the rough wool blanket. Her heart was racing, chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. She blinked and stared for a moment, pulling herself away from dreams and back into the present.

His hand stroked gently across her forehead, and his lips were wet against her cheek. _No_. His lips were dry, but her cheek was wet with tears.

“I’m here.”

“I know,” she said, and she did. His arms were strong and familiar and he would never let go of her either.

She turned into him, all warmth and bare skin. Sleep was hard to come by, and she felt guilty keeping him awake, tossing and turning, unable to relax into a restful state most nights. She felt too sharp. Kept awake by memories of events that would never occur, failed futures that she and Dorian had tacitly agreed never to speak of. Replaying every decision she’d made, all the decisions still to come.

They found distraction in one another, whispered praise echoing in the tent as they sought release as quietly as they could.

It had been more than three months since she left Valta beneath the Deep Roads and returned to Skyhold. Josie and Leliana had been right - they could no longer stem the tide of uncertainty about the Inquisition’s future. Divine Victoria had, at last, called for an Exalted Council, and they were summoned to the Winter Palace.

The closer the day of their departure came, the more frayed she felt.

She left her clan four years ago. Perhaps the relentless pace of that time was taking its toll. Was it a sign that the Inquisition should end? She thought it seemed selfish to disband simply because she was _tired_.

Ellana tried to conceal it, but the Anchor was troubling her more and more. The dull ache became intense and painful with greater frequency. What was she to do about it? She’d talked to the mages and to the healers before. She wasn’t going to subject herself to another round of poking and prodding that resulted in nothing but more questions.

Josephine had stressed the importance of appearances before they set out. Everyone must look smart and be on their best behavior. This was more than a diplomatic mission - this was a fight for their existence. Ellana felt she owed it to everyone to be at her best, even if it meant summoning up every last bit of energy she possessed. They had placed the decision of whether to to remain or disband into her hands.

Their progress down the Frostbacks and into Orlais was slow. Her advisors and all that remained of her inner circle, the Chargers, a large contingent of soldiers, agents, Sisters, healers and a few of their remaining mages were all in tow. It was the pageantry necessary to display the depth of the Inquisition’s size and influence. They would arrive in Halamshiral with armor gleaming and heads held high.

Somewhere in the middle of the Dales, they’d stopped and set up camp for the night. She could hear the shuffle of bodies outside now - waking, rising, packing away bedrolls and breaking down tents. Fires were being stoked - an army marched on its stomach, even if it wasn’t marching to war.

She sat at its head, their Herald, their beacon. Fearless leaders weren’t supposed to sleep in, though. Cullen looked worried, as he had every morning lately, despite her assurances. _“I’m fine,”_ the words came out of her mouth with barely a thought anymore. But she spared him the rhetoric, and pressed her lips gently to his instead.

Propping her elbows underneath her, she slowly began to lift herself off the bedroll when it hit her.

 _Fuck_ , she thought. Because she knew he would worry more. Even though she was fine. She was just tired, but she could feel it rising. She quickly reached down to grab the pale grey tunic off the ground, slipping it over her before she mumbled “Sorry,” and darted through the tent flap.

She walked briskly past soldiers, servants, runners. Feet moving as fast as she could away from prying eyes, toward the edge of camp, into the tall grass where she could at least be sick in private. Face down, hands in the dirt, knees sinking into damp ground.

“Are you alright?” came a voice from behind her moments later.

She squeezed her eyes shut, inhaling deeply, praying for the wave to pass over her. Instead, she coughed and retched again.

He knelt beside her, hand on her back as she sat up, wiping the wet soil from her palms. Waterskin in hand, he offered it to her silently. She sipped and swished, washing the taste of bile from her mouth.

Smoothing her hair away from her face, she took a deep breath in. Finally her body seemed to decide to stop rebelling against her.

“Don’t say it,” he warned. “Because you are _not_ fine.”

She sighed, and handed the water back to him.

“You should speak with one of the healers…”

“I have,” she said. _I haven’t, because she didn’t need more questions without an answer,_ she thought. “They said I just need to get some rest.” _And I will, one way or another, once this whole Exalted Council business is over. I will rest, I will sleep, and I will do whatever Sister Cullen commands._

His eyes looked her up and down, searching for some fault, some wound that would be obvious and easy to fix. Problem and solution, cause and effect - that was Cullen’s way. But there was nothing on the surface to be seen, other than the pallor of her skin and the dark circles under her eyes.

She turned toward him, and his hands brushed lightly down her arms, questioning. Her skin felt sensitive, like she’d spent too long in the sun, or scrubbed it too roughly in a hot bath. But she could see that Cullen needed to reassure her, in order to reassure himself. So she leaned into him, thanking whatever divine intervention had kept him from putting on that damned armor yet.

She could feel him sigh, his breath warm against the top of her head. One hand pulled her tight against him, the other wound under her hair, finding the smooth skin at the back of her neck. His thumb stroked soothingly along her spine, and she felt herself relax slightly.

Exhaustion was her companion, and she steeled herself for another day. She would sleep when they got there, she promised. In a real bed, soft and plush and swathed in brocade and peppered with a ridiculous number of pillows.

The Inquisition resumed its inexorable march toward the Winter Palace. It seemed fitting that she should make her final stand there, a place built on the backs of her people. The Prophet for whom she was called Herald had given that land to the elves. They had been slaves like Andraste, had fought and risen, and Halamshiral was to be their reward. Until once again, they were struck down, and driven out. The end of one long walk became the beginning of another. Now they only wandered, or festered in alienages.

But not her. She was sent off to spy, pushed by fate to interfere, and now raised up too high for her own good. It seemed inevitable that she should be cast back down eventually. Nearly every other elf in that city would be a servant, living on the edges. She was Andraste’s chosen, though. This mark on her hand, something she had neither sought nor asked for, combined with their foolish, fervent belief, would be her undoing.

 

* * *

 

Soldiers lined the thoroughfare, standing at attention, as Ellana, Cullen and Josephine made their way toward the palace. Their uniforms were pressed smooth, brass buttons gleaming, a bright smile fixed to Josephine’s face, a bland one fixed to Ellana’s. Cullen simply tried to keep a scowl away from his own, as he resented every moment of their posturing.

White marble columns, golden peaks, silk banners waving in the wind. The Winter Palace was the epitome of opulence and splendor, symbolic of the wealth of Orlais. Everything groomed and manicured, like the Orlesians themselves. Not a hair out of place, not a blade of grass unclipped, not a stone set askew. So unlike the thatched roofs and rough hewn stone of Ferelden, everything in Orlais was about perfection, or the appearance of it.

Would that be the result, if they got their wish and the Inquisition was brought into the fold? Would all the rough edges be smoothed away? Or perhaps they would simply be worn down until history forgot they were ever there in the first place. What would she be considered? An imperfection to be corrected. Married off, the faults of her race bred out in a line of successive humans until she was a footnote in someone’s genealogy. The Herald of Andraste, an undeniably valuable asset, but regrettably knife-eared.

Relieved of their mounts, they were all shown to their quarters. Hers was suitably grand and spacious, a testament to her position. She chuckled darkly as she wandered around her room, wondering if an elf had ever stepped into this space as anything but a maid. Ornately carved and gilded furniture, crisp bed linens, and silk upholstery put her space in Skyhold to shame.

Cullen’s room was conveniently next door. Despite Josephine’s teasing about the many designs and marriage proposals that the Orlesians had in mind for Cullen, his relationship with the Inquisitor was an “open secret.” He couldn’t exactly share a room with the Prophet’s chosen, but they weren’t going to put him down the hall either. Not that their relationship would put anyone off. Ellana felt sure the nobility found it amusing or charming, and likely they simply found it to be an even greater challenge. To pluck the handsome Commander from the clutches of the Herald herself? Well, that would be a prize indeed.

But he was hers, as sure as she stood on the marble floor. They could take away the land of her people, they could take away the favor a god she didn’t worship, they could take away the Inquisition itself. Cullen, they couldn’t have.

There was a knock on the door. She opened it, expecting him, but instead she was greeted by Sera.

“Andraste’s tits, look at the size of your room!” she gushed, pushing her way past her. “Josie said they’d give me a room here, but piss on that. I’ve got a room with Dalish down at the inn. Maybe I’ll come bunk with you, though, Quizzy. Not like you’ll be in here much anyways.”

Ellana’s heavy trunk, full of finery and more practical traveling clothes as well, was placed near the door. Sera wrapped her hands around one of the heavy brass handles, and began to drag it across the room toward one of the chests of drawers.

“Sera, what are you doing?” Ellana demanded.

“I’m,” she grunted, dragging the trunk along with effort, “helping.”

Sera collapsed, panting with effort, before pulling herself up and opening the lid. “Why have you got so much stuff? How long are we even gonna be here? I mean, doesn’t take long to say “Piss off, or the Inquisition will kick your arse,” does it?”

“Why are you moving my trunk, Sera?”

Her friend shrugged, and resumed opening drawers, haphazardly stacking the clothing inside. “Can’t I just be nice?”

“Have you been all…?” Sera gestured, finger pointing into her open mouth, tongue lolling out. “You know, _bleh_. Any more of that?”

“No, no more of _that_ ,” Ellana replied. Apparently Cullen was talking...

“Good,” she said, shoving the last of the clothes into a large drawer, kicking it shut with her toe. “That’s it. There you go, unpacked. Don’t tell anyone. I’ve got a reputation, you know. Oh, and someone said Mother Whatsherface wants to talk to you. She’s in some Chamber of… Puffed Up Asshattery? I dunno, I got bored halfway through and stopped listening.”

Sera sauntered from the room, exiting as swiftly as she had entered, giving Ellana barely any time to thank her.

 

* * *

 

Mother Giselle was waiting, and Ellana thought it only polite to speak to her soon. Their relationship hadn’t always been the smoothest. But she appreciated her tireless efforts to aid the refugees. It was a brief but pleasant conversation, the Chantry Mother informing her of the whereabouts of familiar faces, including a certain Tevinter ambassador. A new title for an old friend. Most surprising, though, was when she told Ellana of her intention to apologize to Dorian. Ellana wondered if her opinion of Mother Giselle had been far too uncharitable at times.

Before she left, Mother Giselle asked her one last question - “What do _you_ wish to do with the Inquisition?”

There was a long pause before Ellana finally answered, “If the Inquisition has finished what it set out to accomplish, perhaps it is time to end it. But I feel a responsibility to those who have committed themselves to at least consider the possibility of carrying on...” She shrugged. ”I only hope I make the right choice when it comes to it.”

Mother Giselle simply nodded and said, “Thank you, Inquisitor.”

 

* * *

 

Cassandra - _Divine Victoria_ , she reminded herself - was locked in conversation with the Fereldan Ambassador, one that neither of them seemed particularly pleased to be having.

Ellana was hesitant to interrupt, but the Divine looked nothing short of relieved. Cassandra politely excused herself. It was an odd sight, seeing the transformation from armor and steel to the ornate robes and headdress she now wore.

“It is good to see you, Inquisitor.”

“It’s good to see you too, Your Perfection,” Ellana said with a smile. “I’ve been waiting to call you that, you know.”

As hoped for, this elicited a familiar scoff. “Please, I have to hear “Yes, Your Perfection” and “Yes, Your Holiness” all day long. I am hardly either of those things... If at least one person does not call me Cassandra, I will have to hit something.”

“I wouldn’t tell if you did...”

Cassandra laughed mirthlessly, “No, I knew what I was taking on when I accepted this position. I only wish I had half of Justinia’s patience.”

“I’m sorry that it has come to this,” she continued. “After everything we have done, that they should all be so ungrateful.”

“I know you did everything you could, and more than you probably should have.” Ellana shrugged. “Maybe it’s time…”

“Is that truly what you think?”

She was surprised by Cassandra’s indignance. Defending them had put her in a difficult position, one where she could easily be accused to favoritism. Ellana didn’t expect her to prioritize the Inquisition out of sentiment.

“I don’t know… Maybe? I don’t want to let everyone down. But, people are moving on. You’ve moved on. What’s left for us to do, really? I’m not a Queen, I’m not an Empress, I’m not a Divine. I’m elf, who touched something that didn’t belong to her.” Ellana said.

“You are the woman who saved the lives of every person in this palace,” Cassandra replied. “I know you may not believe it was by design, but I do. I have told Leliana this many times, but I will do whatever is in my power to see the Inquisition continue if you wish it. I accepted this role, because I thought it would allow me to do even more for the people of Thedas. Because of the example you set for us all.”

“I should let you speak with the Arl,” she said, casting an irritated glance in Teagan’s direction. “But, let me say this. Do not continue only out of a sense of obligation. You have done _enough_. Find what happiness you can, and hold onto it.”

The Fereldan looked impatient, and Divine Victoria’s attention was needed elsewhere. Ellana told her she appreciated the sentiment, and the support.

Her conversation with Arl Teagan was considerably less pleasant. He expressed gratitude for the service she and the Inquisition had performed in Redcliffe. But, clearly, that was in the past, as far as he was concerned. He obviously saw them as invaders lying in wait now, infringing on their sovereignty.

 _Which is complete bullshit_ , she thought. She was half tempted to tell him so. But then she imagined having to confess to a mortified Josephine that she’d told the Arl of Redcliffe to shove it up his arse. So instead she nodded, and tried her best to mollify him before he skulked off.

As Ellana approached the balcony where the ambassadors of Orlais and Tevinter stood, she feared relations were once again not off to a cordial start. Dorian was saying something about a “net and collar,” which, admittedly, wasn’t entirely out of character for him. His face, however, was distinctly more angry and sneering than she’d hoped to see.

“But, you’ll have to excuse me, I see an old friend I must greet,” he said, walking away from the Orlesian without another word.

“I see you’re as diplomatic as ever, Ambassador Pavus,” she said.

“Well, they had to know what they were getting when they appointed me. This position was, and I quote, “a reward for my interest in the south.” Obviously, “reward” has a very different meaning in Tevinter,” Dorian said.

“It’s good to see you, too.”

“Oh, don’t get cranky with me already. You _know_ I’ve missed you,” he replied. “By the way, did you know you have your very own fountain in the Winter Palace? You save the world from Corypheus, and Orlais gives you a brass plaque and some water squirting out of a marble bowl. Isn’t that grand?”

“Do I detect a note of jealousy?” she teased.

“Over a fountain? Never. Now, if it were a statue, especially a nude one, then I would be terribly jealous,” he replied with a smirk. “I see the Duke is eager to speak with you... If the glare from his mask hasn’t completely blinded you, I will be waiting next to your commemorative water feature.”

Duke Cyril Montfort, member of the Council of Heralds, Lord of Chateau Haine, was a man of many titles, and many compliments. She had to admit that Dorian was right - he was also a man with a fondness for well-polished metal. She thought he and Cullen would get along very well, in that respect.

He assured her that Orlais only wished to offer respectful guidance to the Inquisition, and that he was loathe to see it carved into pieces for the chessboard.

“I have not forgotten Justinia’s death. I had friends who perished at the Temple of Sacred Ashes,” the Duke said, with a remarkable amount of sincerity.

Ellana had to admit, he was not what she expected. If their intent was to appeal to her optimism, Orlais had chosen their representative well. The Duke was neither sycophantic nor manipulative. He seemed surprisingly genuine. Either she was slipping, or he was a masterful player of the Game.

“Whatever happens, I wish you well, Inquisitor.” His parting words gave her pause. The thought of the Inquisition being broken down and divided up, parceled out to the highest bidder - it broke her heart. But she knew that one reasonable Orlesian did not represent the country as a whole. It seemed less like she was choosing which option was better, but which option was the lesser of two evils.

Her friend was waiting, though. That choice could keep a little while longer.

Dorian was sitting on one of the ornately carved stone benches near a disappointingly ordinary fountain.

“I see you survived, vision intact,” he said, patting the empty space next to him.

She sat down beside, and leaned her head onto his shoulder with a sigh.

“Are you alright? It’s only... Sera said something rather odd to me earlier…”

“Everyone keeps asking me that… I’m fine, Dorian,” she insisted.

 _Are you alright? I’m fine._ Over and over. And he didn’t look convinced.

“Really, I am. I’m just worn out, from all of… this.”

“Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. The entire situation is rather _shit_. Orlais wants the Inquisition tamed, Ferelden wants it gone, the Chantry meddles, and Tevinter sends me. But one out of four is better than none, I suppose. Especially when that one is so very dashing.”

“I see your modesty hasn’t diminished.”

“You say that as if I ever had any to begin with.”

She smiled, and slid her hand into his, knowing full well that he had an abundance of modesty, if one knew where to look.

“So how are things in Minrathous?”

His last letter had been full of the growing pains of the fledgling Lucerni. If anyone could turn their youthful zealotry into actually political savvy, it would be Dorian. He lamented their idealism in word, but in truth, Ellana thought he relished the opportunity. They saw in him someone who realized the corruption of Tevinter, and set out to do something about it.

But instead of regaling her with tales of their hero worship, she felt him stiffen before he pulled away from her slightly. His fingers still gripped hers, though more tightly now.

“My father is dead. Assassinated, I believe.”

“Oh, Dorian…”

He waved away her sympathy - it was appreciated, but unnecessary. The relationship had been irreparably damaged long ago, and he’d already grieved the loss of his father in many ways since then.

“I received notice this morning: a perversely cheerful letter congratulating me on assuming his seat in the Magisterium. We only met once while I was home, briefly, and he didn’t say anything about keeping me as his heir. This “Ambassadorship”... his doing, I’m told. He must have wanted to keep me away when the trouble began.”

“Are you... going to? Take his seat in the Magisterium, I mean?”

“I have to, Ell.”

She knew he did. There was a glimmer of hope, seeing him again, seeing them all again, perhaps. A longing for the days when the world was insecure, but her friends were close around her.

“Once the Exalted Council has ended, I’m going back to Tevinter. I have to try. It’s one thing to sit around, lamenting the ills of the Imperium, trying to shape young minds to change it for the better. It’s another thing entirely to have the opportunity to directly change it myself.”

“I want Tevinter to be a place where my dearest, perhaps my _only_ friend, can come,” he said, voice wavering.

“I know. I understand. But I’ll still miss you.”

He reached into his pocket, pulling out an intricately engraved gold locket. “Well, of course you will. I don’t doubt Cullen’s ability to keep you entertained, but eventually you will want slightly more satisfying conversation. And Maevaris is a remarkably good chess player - I miss having someone I could beat so easily.”

Ellana rolled her eyes, as he pressed the locket into her palm.

“It’s a sending crystal. They’re ridiculously rare, but there are more than a few advantages to having connections with the Inquisition. So, when you’re lonely or bored or simply miss my dulcet tones, I’m there in an instant. Unless I’m busy. Then I’m there at my earliest convenience.”

She opened the locket, revealing the small, glowing blue crystal inside. “The men in my life give me the oddest gifts, you know… It’s as if no one told you about poetry or chocolates or jewelry that doesn’t involve complex magic.”

“I’ll bring diamonds next time, I promise.”

Bull had insisted on buying him a round at the Gilded Horn, and Dorian invited her to join. Nothing like an afternoon of drunken carousing to reminisce.

“I still haven’t seen Varric, and apparently Vivienne is looking for me as well… I’ll meet you there, though, alright?”

Dorian placed his hands on her shoulders, his eyes searching her face, “You’re not sleeping, are you?”

She patted him on the hand, “Go have a drink, Dorian…”

 

* * *

 

The place may have been wrong, but the people were right. It was a day for reunions.

Varric was waiting at the foot of the sweeping staircase, a harried seneschal following him. He was Viscount Tethras now, and she wondered whether the good people of Kirkwall realized what they’d gotten themselves into. She had no doubt he would excel at the job, and probably produce some of the most entertaining official memoranda ever written in the city’s history.

Ellana also had a new title to add to her collection - Comtesse Lavellan. Apparently this one came with both an estate, and a key to the city. A _functional_ key to the city, according to Seneschal Bran, whose patience seemed worn thin already.

“No matter how this Council thing works out, Chestnut, you’ve always got a place waiting in Kirkwall. And Curly can tag along, too,” Varric added with a wink.

 _Would he really want to go back there?_ she wondered. The infamous remains of Knight-Commander Meredith had been cleared out along with the rest of the red lyrium in the Gallows. But she wasn’t sure whether that was a chapter in Cullen’s life he would want to revisit. Ellana had grown up a Marcher, but being Dalish meant staying on the fringes of the cities. Varric’s gifts were given with the best of intentions, and she decided to accept them with the same.

Vivienne was waiting near the baths, and had roped her into an appointment at the spa the following morning. Somehow Ellana doubted relaxation and pampering were her only motivations. There seemed to be a subtle suggestion that the Inquisitor could use a little “polishing.” Josephine would certainly approve, and for all her complaints, Ellana appreciated Vivienne’s insight into the workings of Orlesian society.

“Are elves even permitted at this spa?” Ellana asked, knowing full well Vivienne would bristle at the question. She couldn’t help but point out that it was only her position that would permit her to even enter such a space, let alone be welcomed there.

“Of course, darling. You’re the _Inquisitor_ ,” Vivienne replied. “I know what you’re getting at, but the fact is, it’s only the power we wield that allows _any_ of us to walk through these courtyards.” It seemed like a gross oversimplification of the matter, but there was still some truth in what she said.

And Madame de Fer was not a woman who took “no” for an answer. A trip to the spa it would be. There were certainly worse ways to spend a morning.

Josephine had also engaged her for an outing. Ellana was considerably more delighted to accept this invitation. The details were scant - Josie would meet her outside of her room at seven o’clock, and the dress code was formal. She seemed so excited, and Ellana was secretly pleased to have a reason to wear the white silk gown again.

Josie had spent years with a smile pasted to her face, bearing the weight of being the ambassador of the Inquisition. Pleasant in the face of indignance and downright rudeness. Performing feats of negotiation with alacrity. A night out seemed to be the very, very least she could give such a friend.

 

* * *

 

Cole was lurking outside the Gilded Horn. He’d been absent more and more lately, saying little, content to watch when he was around. He was somber at Skyhold, but in Halamshiral he played matchmaker, predicting happiness between Maryden and Krem. Ellana hoped it was so. A wandering bard and a traveling mercenary - it had never occurred to her before, but they were a surprisingly suitable match.

Ellana thought she attracted the best of what Tevinter produced. They may have been scorned or rejected by the Imperium, and perhaps it was because of this that they fit in so neatly with the Inquisition. She was pleased that at least one of them might find love as a result of the years they’d spent trying to save Thedas from itself.

Inside, the Chargers surprised Bull with a birthday gift - a dragon’s skull. How they had hauled the thing all the way there was a mystery to Ellana, but Bull seemed genuinely pleased. Certainly a halfway-to-drunk Dorian beside him had _nothing_ to do with his good mood...

The Inquisition had invaded the inn, and they were happy to see the Herald amongst their number. Coin and ale flowed freely - the soldiers were eager to enjoy their time in Orlais.

Perched on a stool at the bar, Sera watched her shrewdly. Ellana sat down beside her, but she was quiet, glancing at the pages of a small leatherbound journal full of hastily scribbled notes and delicately cross-hatched illustrations.

“You know you can tell me stuff, right?” Sera said, looking up from a doodle of Dagna surrounded by several dozen hearts. “ _Stuff_ stuff. Private stuff. I won’t blurt it out to everyone like Creepy over there.”

“I’m fine, Sera.”

“You keep sayin’ that… And no one believes it. So why bother? Spit it out, tell him, tell me, tell Dorian, tell somebody.”

“Just leave it alone, please…” Ellana said.

She picked up a quill, scowling as she scratched onto a blank page. “Fine,” Sera grumbled. “Just don’t be stupid.”

 _Where was this coming from?_ It was sweet, in a very Sera sort of way. Ellana knew she cared. She wasn’t the sort to give you pats on the back and a shoulder to cry on. No, and she wasn’t always easy to understand. But she had heart - she felt and she loved and she protected in her own manner. Sometimes it was a little rambling, and a little stream-of-consciousness. Sometimes it was cookies or ginger drops for a hangover. She cared, and Ellana touched her lightly on the shoulder.

But Sera was hunched over her book now, pen nearly digging through the page. Dorian was lining up shots of something called a “Hissing Drake” along the bar, a potently nauseating aroma of cinnamon wafting from them. Bull was grinning more broadly than that he had in months, and she really hoped that he had been listening carefully to Josie when had been going over the part about “discretion.”

She had a feeling sobriety would be advisable for her evening, though. Leaving her friends in the capable hands of the Gilded Horn’s barkeep, Ellana strolled leisurely through the courtyard of Halamshiral.

 

* * *

 

“You’re to dodge, not catch!”

She knew that voice. However, she did not know the barking mass of fur, four legs and waggling tail that was bounding after him.

“If that ball were a fireball, you’d be dead,” Cullen scolded.

She thought should have been surprised. Or at least pretended to be. But, really, some stereotypes were simply true. This was the inevitable result of loving a Fereldan.

“A dog,” she said, absolutely deadpan.

This was clearly the wrong thing to say, judging from the affronted look on Cullen’s face.

“He’s _not_ a dog, he’s a mabari. The merchant said he was abandoned. They don’t breed them here. Some noble probably tired of the novelty.”

She sighed. Loudly.

Then Cullen was on the ground, sitting beside the dog - the mabari. And there were four eyes now, all staring at her plaintively.

“He’s another Fereldan trapped at the Winter Palace… I couldn’t leave him to that fate,” he said. “Besides, I think he likes me.”

A short, sharp bark, seemingly in agreement.

“A dog?” she said again. But now there was a wet nose nudging her hand, soft dark grey fur between her fingers, and Cullen smiling like a boy whose mother had told him _“Yes, you can keep the puppy, dear.”_

Only a monster could have said “no” to either of them… Grinning broadly, the Commander, starched and buttoned and proper, played fetch with his dog in the courtyard of the Winter Palace. The Inquisitor shook her head, and grinned as well, because now she two Fereldans to look after.

 


	20. Autre Ne Veut

It was late when Ellana returned to her room that night. She found Cullen passed out on top of the blankets, still dressed in his uniform. His coat was unbuttoned at the collar, boots side by side at the foot of the bed. He looked peaceful, and she didn’t have the heart to wake him.

Josephine’s trust only extended so far, and so she had been coaxed into wearing a richly embroidered, deep violet gown, fastened by dozens of tiny mother of pearl buttons. It was irritatingly slow to put on, and even more so to take off with tired hands at the end of the night.

“This is a very pleasant sight to wake up to…” Cullen said, his voice thick with sleep.

“Then why don’t you come help me? I don’t know why I let Josie dress me up like a doll,” Ellana said, though truthfully, she did know. It was because her friend took such delight in it, whereas she was content to close her eyes, reach into a drawer and wear whatever she pulled out. Unless it was this dress. That would go straight back in.

It was beautiful, of course. Fitted and formed to her, both revealing and concealing, because in Orlais, even clothing spoke volumes. It wasn’t a language she knew, but trusted Josephine to translate.

Cullen slipped off the bed with a spring in his step. An extra pair of hands, enthusiastic ones at that, sped up the process of undressing. An equally enthusiastic pair of lips skimmed across her bare shoulder, as the hands began to form some very interesting ideas... before they were rudely interrupted by a strange noise.

She turned from the dresser, and was greeted by another bark. Nestled into what was likely a very expensive silk duvet, spread out on the floor in front of an ornate mahogany nightstand, the mabari looked incredibly pleased with himself. The contrast was not lost on her, and she thought once again of poor Josephine… Hopefully being a close, personal friend of the Divine would mitigate any ill feelings over ruined bedding.

“How did you sneak him into the room?” she asked, violet silk hanging halfway off of her shoulders.

“I tried to ask one of the servants if there was a kennel in the Palace, but she looked at me as if I’d asked for Andraste’s ashes on a silver platter. And… well, we’re on the ground floor, so I brought him in through the window.”

Ellana burst into laughter imagining the Commander of Inquisition, smuggling a dog into the Winter Palace through a window.

“You… Wait, you snuck into the Inquisitor’s room through a window, with a _mabari_ , and no one noticed?”

Cullen’s shoulders sunk, and he rubbed at the back of his neck sheepishly.

“Not exactly… The windows were locked, of course. So I told him to sit and wait outside. Which he did, mind you, because mabaris are incredibly well-trained, and he is a very, _very_ good boy,” Cullen cooed, sitting back down on the bed and ruffling the fur behind the dog’s ears with both of his hands.

“I came back to my room, opened the window, and brought him in. The two of us were quite content to hide from Orlesian society, until another servant knocked at the door. She brought in a tray full of-”

“You let her come in, when you went through all the trouble of sneaking a dog in through the window?” Ellana interrupted.

“Well, I hadn’t eaten lunch!” Cullen said defensively. “And… I may have… hidden him in the closet,” the last few words were mumbled, as he turned his head away from her.

Ellana pressed her hand over her mouth, steadying herself against the chest of drawers, as she tried in vain to suppress even more laughter.

“You put the poor thing in the _closet_?”

“Just let me finish, please,” he said, with an exasperated sigh. “The servant came in, set the tray out on the table, and then she asked me if I enjoyed reading. I said yes... And she gave me the strangest look. She said that there was a volume on the bookshelf about the geography of the Anderfels that I might find particularly interesting, then she just bowed and left.”

After releasing the poor pup from the closet, and the two Fereldans had enjoyed their meal together, Cullen decided to peruse through the reading material after alll. There was a weathered green book titled “Steppes and Stones: Natural Wonders of the Anderfels.” But when he tried to pull the book from the shelf, the entire wall began to move forward instead…

“I don’t believe you,” Ellana said. “That is the most ridiculous story I have ever heard. And I have spent a considerable amount of time drunk with Varric. Besides, that still doesn’t explain why you’re both in _my_ room.”

Cullen crossed his arms, “I am not in the habit of opening hidden doors, and wasn’t expecting it to close behind me. I spent an hour pulling on every book on your shelf! And there were still too many people moving about in the hallway...”

“So you gave up and took a nap instead?” she teased.

“Your bed is very comfortable.”

The last time she came to the Winter Palace, she’d slept alone. Solas had been relegated to the servant’s quarters - the Inquisition was still an upstart organization, trying to gain legitimacy. Now it seemed she’d be sharing her room, and possibly her bed, with two.

She still didn’t believe him about the bookshelf, though. Cullen strode out of her room, determined to shed the uncomfortable uniform and prove her wrong. She finally slipped off the gown, and opened the drawers to sift through the stacks Sera had hastily deposited earlier that morning. Her fingers skimmed across the linen and silk, and she pulled on a simple, pale green shift.

The mabari watched all of this with calm interest. He was sitting beside the bed still when she turned around, alert and eager, and she could only grin. He watched every step as she moved toward the bed and sank down into the soft pillows and blankets. He watched her as she sighed with relief, enjoying the comfort after a long day. He watched her as she looked down at him and felt a twinge of guilt…

“Oh fine… Come on,” she said, patting the empty space on the bed beside her.

Well-trained indeed, he didn’t need to be told twice. _Much like his master_ , she thought. The dog settled down beside her, proudly snuggling himself into the down-filled quilt under them, before laying his head across her stomach. She stroked her fingers through the patch of white fur above his nose, and swore she heard the dog sigh. It seemed to her Cullen had found his twin in canine form.

The bed _was_ comfortable, and the weight and warmth of her new friend was oddly reassuring. Soon she was drifting, more relaxed than she’d been for weeks.

Ellana felt the rumble vibrating through her skin first, pulling her out of the lull of near-sleep. There was movement in the corner of the room, and the mabari leapt over her and off the bed. Ears forward, tail stiff, body low to the marble floor, she could hear the deep growl come from him again. The dog leaned forward, giving a sharp bark toward the bookcase that was slowly opening into her room.

“Quiet, boy!” Cullen barked in return, as he walked through the opening between the two rooms, tray in hand. He looked more than a little triumphant, seeing her surprise at his entrance. “It’s just me.”

“I think he likes me better,” Ellana said, as the mabari sat down on his haunches, still alert. His eyes were sharply trained on Cullen, but his posture relaxed.

“Something else we have in common,” Cullen said.

He propped a chair, rather forcefully, against the bookshelf, and settled down into the bed beside her, bearing a plate of pastries.

Everything in the room at that moment felt like the culmination of their time together. Finding simplicity within chaos. Opposition and contrast somehow blending into harmony.

A woman, an elf, Dalish born, Inquisition made, heart broken and built and broken again - mended at last with patience. A man, Fereldan down to his bones, mind broken and body broken and spirit nearly broken - remade in her image. Together they sat in the Winter Palace, of all places, oblivious to the luxury around them. Laughing at the oddities of Orlesian opera in a room with a secret door, feeding candied violets to a mabari on silk sheets - another stray, out of place but welcomed into their pack.

He swiped his thumb across her bottom lip, wiping away a bit of the honey-flavored cream. He’d saved them to share with her, because _everything_ was better shared with her. She grabbed his hand, her tongue on his thumb with a raised brow, then laughing again. He looked at her in that way she thought no one ever should - wanting everything and asking for nothing.

Cullen leaned forward. Warm and inviting, his nose brushed against hers, and he kissed her - too sweetly, too tenderly, too much like the first time.

“Marry me,” he said.

She didn’t know where she should look. His eyes, his lips, his hands, clasping her own as if he were kneeling in prayer? He was so still, and so close. Waiting.

A soft, rumbling bark, and then another pair of eyes were watching her hopefully again, head resting on the edge of the bed.

“What?” she stuttered.

_What do I say?_

“I… had a plan, and there wasn’t a dog… But…” He stumbled over his words. He didn’t pull away.

He held her hands more firmly, and she could hear him swallow the the lump in his throat. But he spoke clearly, “I’ve thought of little else. And I don’t need a plan, only to know if you would.”

_How can he look so sure?_

Frilly cakes in bed and promises that wouldn’t be broken. To care and be cared for. To love and be loved. To trust and be trusted.

But the things that she held too close could be lost, could be taken from her.

“It’s risk versus reward, Chestnut,” Varric had said to her once during a game of Wicked Grace, grinning at her over the top of his hand of cards. She’d stared at his face for a long while, trying to decipher his inscrutable smirk. Pushing all of her coin into the center of the table anyways, she’d lost the hand because for once he wasn’t bluffing.

_All in, or fold…_

His thumbs rubbed against her palms nervously, and she looked into his eyes - Fereldan ale and polished sylvanwood. What she had with Cullen… It didn’t burn bright, only to flame out, leaving her with scars and ashes. It grew, and it gave. And she wanted more, too.

“Yes.”

 

* * *

 

One simple word, and his face was awash with anticipation. He knew she’d spoken and he thought he heard her answer, but he couldn’t stop himself from asking, “Truly?”

Her fingers in his hair, she pressed her forehead against his. The little dip in her upper lip, bending as she smiled, like an arrow being nocked into her bow. Lips begging to be parted with his tongue. Kisses that he would never again have to steal when no one was looking. Because he would kiss his wife when and where and how they pleased. He wouldn’t have to watch them smirk, or listen to Josephine prattle on about whatever designs some simpering Orlesian nobles had for him.

People would know. People would notice, the Inquisitor marrying her Commander in the middle of an Exalted Council. He didn’t give a damn.

The Inquisition would change after this. But he had no need for anything other than the certainty she gave him. He could feel the stupid, boyish grin pasted to his face, and couldn’t think of a single reason to stop it. He asked himself for the thousandth time what he had done to deserve this kind of happiness.

His reverie was broken by a wet nose nudging against his foot, accompanied by a whimper. Apparently someone was feeling left out.

“I think we’re going to have to give him a name,” Ellana said, tapping her hand on the bed and smiling as the mabari jumped up and sat proudly beside her.

She scratched behind the mabari’s ears, and studied him carefully. “Hmm… _Ahn mar melin_?”

His Elven still only consisted of some basic expressions and greetings, but he enjoyed hearing the language come from her lips. Round vowels and rolled r’s, it sounded so fluid compared to the harsh, clumsy rhythm of the common tongue. She spoke it when she was relaxed, slipping into it out of habit. This time it was a phrase he knew. Cullen found it endearing that she’d wondered aloud and asked the mabari its name. They were dogs of war, trained and honed and forged for battle. Loyal and protective. Another piece of armor he would give her without question.

But, a name? He had to admit he hadn’t given it much thought.

“I’d just thought to call him “pup,” or something like it…” Cullen said.

“ _Pup_? But, look at him, he’s huge!” she said, the mabari’s head filling her lap. “What about Dane? Didn’t you tell me half of Ferelden claims to be one of his descendents?”

He remembered it well. Lying together in her bed, reading an old book of folktales plucked from some dusty shelf in Dorian’s library. Somehow the story had become a play - he the great hunter, she the white hart. He had stalked through the room, while the hart had shed both her shift and her smalls, and made only a very feeble attempt to avoid being caught against the railing on the balcony.

“Am I really supposed to call him that without blushing?” Cullen asked, leaning in closer.

“Why do you think I suggested it?” she grinned.

Maker, she was wicked sometimes…

“What do you think, Dane?” Ellana said, gently petting his velvety grey fur. The mabari gave a low woof of assent, and that seemed to settle the matter. Dane it was, and despite her initial skepticism, he appeared to have won her over. A wife, a dog - if it started raining, Cullen would swear he was home…

 _A wife_. He didn’t think he’d ever tire of saying that.

“About this, _us_ … getting married,” she said, the corner of her mouth twisting up as she said the words. “I don’t want to wait. Cassandra said something to me, to find what happiness I could and hold on to it. That’s just what I want to do.”

“But, I know you have family. I understand if you want them to be there. So… what do you think?” Ellana asked, teeth worrying her lip.

 _Is it bad form to wake up the Most Holy in the middle of the night to perform a wedding?_ was what Cullen thought.

He knew they would be disappointed, though, Mia especially.

All it had taken was the word “someone” and the hint that she fed him, too. The letters came fast and furious after that. _Who is she? Where is she from? What does she look like? How did you meet? When can we meet her?_ He’d tried to be vague, tried to downplay the entire matter, but Mia was persistent. She knew better than to think he’d taken a woman to the lake simply for “a nice time.” In fact, she had some rather choice words for him when he wrote just that.

She dragged it out of him, bit by bit. And when she wrote him a few weeks ago about whether he “intended to make an honest woman out of her,” he found himself unable to deny it. He didn’t exactly confirm it, either… But his sister had seized upon the notion that her brother was “living in sin with the Herald of our Maker’s Bride” and spent the better part of six paragraphs scolding him for it.

He tried his best to impress upon Mia that Ellana was a person and not just a figurehead, that she was quite uncomfortable with the titles and deference. Aside from that, the fact remained that she was Dalish. It had been an awkward topic for him to broach with his sister, even in a letter. He knew that Mia’s faith had sustained her through many difficult times - the flight from Honnleath during the Blight, the death of their parents, the long stretches of silence from a brother she could only hope was still alive. Cullen didn’t doubt that she would love Ellana just as much as he did. But he found himself hesitant to tell Mia outright “The Herald of Andraste doesn’t worship the Maker.”

As happy as he knew his siblings would be for them both, he preferred to keep it simple. He didn’t need pomp or circumstance - he just needed Ellana to know beyond all doubt that he was _hers_.

“I don’t want to wait, either. I have everything I need right here,” Cullen said. He hesitated for a moment, but continued on, “Are you quite sure you feel the same?”

He saw the crease in her brow, and part of him regretted asking. It was a difficult matter for her. That her clan survived, that they prospered, but she felt she couldn’t go back. Try as he might, it was difficult for him to understand. With or without the markings, her _vallaslin_ , she was still the same person - beautiful and brave.

The wrinkle eased, and she slipped her hands into his again, despite a disappointed rumble from Dane. “Our friends are all here. They’re my family now… And you. That’s all I need.”

Cullen had crossed the Waking Sea four years ago thinking that he had nothing to lose, never imagining what he would gain.


	21. Never Be Alone

Ellana woke in a bed large enough to sleep half a dozen comfortably. Despite this, the other two occupants had cocooned themselves around her. The mabari’s head resting on her thigh had made her leg go numb. Cullen’s face was buried in her neck, his lips still half-pressed against her skin, his arm draped over her middle. Both of them were still dead to the world as she tried to slide her limbs from under them.

Grey fur in one hand, blond curls in the other - his sleepy secret. They were smoothed into place each morning with Orlesian aid, which she thought a bit traitorous to both his country and herself. She’d spent her childhood with a mass of dark and unruly hair in her wake, until the day she’d taken her father’s knife to it when she was nine. He had stared at her in baffled amusement, more concerned she might cut herself than he was about the hair. One of the women in her clan eventually  evened out the mess she’d made.

“ _On dhea,”_ Cullen muttered.

 _“On dhea,”_ she replied, as his hand skimmed up the edge of her shift. His fingers slid slowly toward the inside of her thigh, until she felt a puff of warm, frustrated breath against her throat… Thwarted by his own familiar.

“I told you he likes me better.”

“Mmm… bad dog,” he grumbled.

A knock at the door gave her the excuse needed to shift them both. The mabari moved more easily than the man, though. Cullen attempted to entice her into an embrace, but her hunger won out over his. She shook the pins and needles from her leg as she tied her robe around her.

A bare-faced young elf with a serious expression, bearing fresh fruit, breads, cheeses, and _two_ cups next to the teapot. Apparently the servants were all well-informed in the Winter Palace. He made as if to enter the room, but she stood firmly in the doorway. She smiled broadly as she relieved him of the tray, with a hastily added _“Ma serannas.”_ Before she could correct herself, the young man nodded and replied, _“De da’rahn.”_  He quickly turned to retreat back down the hallway.

She returned with her bounty to find an empty bed, and an open window. Apparently nature had called for dear Dane, and Cullen still hadn’t found the courage to walk him down the hallway. Ellana thought about trying to explain _that_ to the Exalted Council - _“I’m sorry, but the Commander of my armies is unable to attend, as he threw his back out hoisting a mabari through a window..”_ The Fereldans might actually understand, but she shuddered to think of the Orlesians’ reaction. “Dog lords” indeed.

It was an amusing beginning to her wedding day.

They had formulated a vague plan last night. Obviously the first step was speaking to Cassandra, or Mother Giselle if she was unable. Neither of them were really sure what the protocol was for asking for a dear friend, who happened to be the leader of the dominant religion in southern Thedas, to marry you. Ellana thought this might be an instance where her status would actually be of help, because if the Herald of Andraste didn’t deserve to be married by the Divine herself, she wasn’t sure who did. Telling their friends would come next. After that is where it became “vague.”

Neither of them had been keen to spoil the moment with details. They’d both been perfectly content to block out the world for a little while, and forget all about the where and the how. They were lying next to each other, they were in love, and they were getting married.

But the details were what weighed heavily on Cullen’s mind. He knew their differences, he _loved_ their differences. He realized he hadn’t fully considered them when he asked her to wed.

They sat on the bed together, he spreading butter across a thick slice of bread, she pouring tea for both of them. A small grin hadn’t left her lips since he opened his eyes that morning.

“There is something I would like to discuss,” Cullen began. He saw the grin falter slightly, and his heart with it, but carried on. “I have come to realize that all the thoughts I have for this day are very much my own. I grew up in the Chantry, and it is easy to forget at times that you did not. But I should _not_ forget, and I don’t want you to feel pushed into something that isn’t yours as well.”

She wasn’t really sure what her own thoughts were. Whereas Cullen’s faith had remained and grounded him despite the hardships, hers had faltered long ago. For all the lies he told, she really did believe there was truth to what Solas said about the Dalish. If they were mistaken about the _vallaslin_ , what else were they wrong about? Their Gods, their prayers, their stories, their history?

After her father died, she felt set adrift. Children were a blessing to the Dalish, but she withdrew and existed on the periphery after losing him. They gave her the space they thought she needed to grieve, but it felt like her connection to her clan was severed.

Her memories of him felt as close as ever. The way he would talk about her mother, the sad smile and watery eyes. She remembered overhearing the Keeper once, “Nehn wouldn’t want you to be alone. She would want you to be happy again.” And Ellana remembered his reply, “She may be gone, but my heart still belongs to her.” The vows they would have made, the prayers they would have offered. It gave her some small comfort to think she might speak the same, if only to honor them.

“We have both given up enough. I don’t want either of us to sacrifice a single thing today,” Cullen said.

They made their decisions with the same determination as when they’d stood on opposite sides of the war table. He would honor what he held dear, she would do the same, and they would both pledge themselves to one another.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It was joyous occasion, but it seemed more like Cullen was formulating a plan of attack. _Old habits die hard._ He was determined for nothing to go awry. Training regimens and duty rosters were his stock-in-trade, and Ellana was content to sit back and indulge him. The little ridge in his brow, the way his mouth turned down slightly at the corners, hands clasped firmy behind his back - it was all far more endearing when they weren’t trying to save the world.

“I’ll speak with Cassandra - _Divine Victoria,_ rather - while you speak with Dorian. We shall meet back here afterwards, and re-evaluate if she is unable to officiate the ceremony. If all is well, I will inform those staying in the palace, while you will speak with Sera and Bull at the inn, then meet Vivienne at the spa.”

“Should I be writing this down?” she asked, her smile teasing.

“You knew what you were getting when you accepted me.”

Their marriage would be one of exceptional planning and impeccable organization, if Cullen had his way. She suppressed the urge to salute him, and instead kissed him on the cheek before they both set off for their respective tasks.

 

-

 

Dorian was not a morning person. So it came as a surprise when Ellana knocked on his door, and it was opened promptly. However, Dorian wasn’t the one standing in the doorway.

“Hey, Boss.”

This was also a surprise.

“... _Oh_. Bull. Ah, good morning?”

Iron Bull simply smirked, before calling back into the room behind him, “We’ve got company.”

Dorian groaned from somewhere in the muddle of pillows and blankets heaped on the bed, and the scene felt appropriately familiar.

“Is the palace on fire? Or is someone trying to take over Thedas again?” asked a muffled voice that she assumed was Dorian’s.

“Neither. I’m inviting you to my wedding.”

There was a cat that lived in the barn at Skyhold - a scruffy, half-feral tabby, missing a large tuft of fur on its left side and the tip of its right ear. Dennet was happy to leave out bowls of milk in exchange for the absence of mice in the stables. Ellana had watched it walk along the edge of the roof once, lose its grip on the thatching, and plunge straight into the horse trough.

She was reminded of this as she watched Dorian scramble out of the pile of bedding, eyes wide and moustache askew.

“Your _what?”_

“My wedding.”

Dorian’s mouth hung open for several moments, before Bull took pity on him. “I think he means congratulations.”

“Thank you, Bull.”

It took Dorian a little while to come to grips with both being awake and being the recipient of such unexpected news. But, eventually, he was pulled out of his stunned silence, and she was pulled into a tearful hug.

“If you tell anyone about this, I will deny it,” Dorian said, hastily wiping at his cheeks.

“Would it really be so bad if people knew how sentimental you were?” she asked.

“Yes.”

She would keep his secret, of course. That was the nature of friendship, to serve as a repository for the stories and memories that could scarcely be confessed to another. They comforted, they cared, and sometimes they nudged you in the right direction.

Ellana felt a strong hand patting her gently on the back, “I’m gonna give you two a minute… Congrats again, Boss.”

The door closed quietly behind her, and she pounced.

“So, are we going to talk about your guest?”

“It’s not what you’re thinking,” Dorian said. “And I know I’ve said that before, but this time I’m actually telling the truth. I was a bit overzealous yesterday afternoon… and evening… and night. Apparently I was not in a fit state to find my way back to my room, or to do much of anything, really. He made sure I ended up in my own bed, _alone_ , and slept on the chaise.”

“Oh, Dorian, I’m sorry. I know… your father, and-”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “No, I’m not letting that man _spoil_ something else… There’ll be plenty of time for that once I’m back in Tevinter. Today is only for good things.”

Dorian took a deep breath, and stepped back from her. He stood tall, with his arms crossed triumphantly, a fond smile spread across his face.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Admiring my handiwork,” Dorian replied. “Cullen would probably still be gawking at you awkwardly if I hadn’t taken matters into hand. _Oh, be still my hardened heart! I shall gaze longingly upon the beautiful Inquisitor as I grumble and scowl._ Something had to be done.”

“Well, whatever it was, I’m glad that you did it,” Ellana said.

Wit and sarcasm were easy. Telling her how truly, deeply happy he was for her was considerably more difficult. She was his friend. She was the family he’d never had, and never known he’d wanted. There was a void that he hadn’t even known existed until she had already filled it.

He’d worried she would be just as broken as he was. And he’d worried that he might selfishly prefer to keep her that way. Love was a selfless act, though. A few bruised toes were a small price to pay for this end. He would return to Tevinter, and she was far more than just a loose end to tie up. He wanted, for once, to leave something better than he’d found it.

There weren’t words for this, though. He pressed his hand to her cheek, feeling it swell under his palm as her lips drew into a smile. He kissed her lightly on the forehead, feeling like it was kind of thing a brother would do.

“I am happy for you.”

It was such a tremendous understatement that it almost felt like a lie.

But she knew him, and she loved him too, and he knew that it was good enough.

 

-

 

Cullen was a man with a mission. The problem was, while he had always known where to find Cassandra, he realized he had no clue how to meet with Divine Victoria. The Winter Palace was a maze of marble columns and coffered ceilings. If one were even permitted to pop in on the Divine, he wouldn’t even know how to get there. Though he was disappointed to disrupt his neatly ordered plans, he would have to speak with Josephine first.

He took a deep breath, and steeled himself before knocking on her door. It was an odd feeling, his desire to shout from the rooftops warring with his very private nature. Admittedly, that very private nature had slowly been eroding since their trip to the lake. He’d heard others say it a thousand times, but never really believed it - _love changes a person_. First-hand experience taught him it was true.

“Commander, this is a pleasant surprise,” Josephine said brightly. “Come in.”

Cullen stepped into her room, standing just in front of the door. His hands clasped behind his back, trying not to fidget, though it was painfully obvious to the Ambassador that he was anxious.

“Is there... something I can help you with?” she asked.

Cullen cleared his throat nervously, “Yes. Well, perhaps. I need to speak with Cassandra. Divine Victoria. To ask her something. A private matter.”

“I do not wish to be intrusive, but… Considering the very delicate situation that we are in at present, may I ask what this is regarding?”

“Yes. Of course,” Cullen said. “I’m sorry, I had very specific order for all of this. She has quite enough weighing on her, and I wanted all of this to be taken care of…”

Seeing the utterly perplexed look on Josephine’s face, he took another deep breath and carried on.

“I have asked the Inquisitor to marry me, and she has accepted. We do not wish to delay, and would like to be wed as soon as possible. I wanted to speak with Divine Victoria in order to ask if she would perform the ceremony.”

Josephine’s reply could only be described as “ear piercing.” Congratulations flowed in a fluctuating mix of Antivan and common, Cullen smiled bashfully as she threw her arms around him.

“This is _wonderful_ news! Of course you must speak with Cassandra! It’s highly unusual, of course, but considering your long acquaintance, and the fact that you are marrying the Herald of Andraste, I hardly think it is unprecedented. Oh, Andraste’s Mercy, there is so much to be done and so little time-”

She had hardly taken a breath, when there was a knock at the door.

“Josie? Are you alright? It’s only that I thought I heard shouting…”

Josephine swooped over to the door again, eagerly ushering Leliana in.

“You will not believe it, Leliana! Cullen has asked her to _marry_ him! Oh, it is so _romantic_ and-”

“Congratulations, Cullen,” Leliana said, gently placing her hand on Josephine’s shoulder. “Varric owes me fifty sovereigns now. He never thought you would work up the nerve to ask.”

 _I never thought I would either_.

An audience with the Divine with swiftly arranged. Her reaction was as quietly joyful as Josephine’s had been exuberant. She agreed to marry them without hesitation, and Cullen was sure this was one of the very few times he had seen her smile without reservation.

When Cassandra had approached him in Kirkwall, he had been at a crossroads. Doubting every choice he made, exhausted and filled with regret, she offered him another path. She looked past his mistakes, and saw something worthy in him.

Everything he had left behind, everything he had become, everything he now held dear was because he had accepted her, and joined the Inquisition.

“I am so happy for you, my friend,” Cassandra said.

He nodded, and she understood.

 

-

 

The Inquisitor’s quarters in the Winter Palace were buzzing with activity when she returned with Dorian and Bull. Varric had been wandering the halls looking for Leliana, and was informed by a still-giddy Josephine of the impending nuptials.

“Congratulations, Curly!” he said, patting Cullen briskly on the back, before turning to Leliana. “I owe you fifty, Nightingale.”

Sera was still lingering outside the door when Ellana approached.

“Someone’s in your room. Heard squealing. And barking. Thought you and Commander Tightarse might be up to something _extra_ fun,” she said. 

“Well, it’s not that kind of fun… But we are up to something,“ Ellana said. “Cullen and I are getting married. Today. Hopefully.”

“Ha! Knew it!” Sera declared. “Gonna need flowers. You’re still an elfy elf, after all. Flowers all in your hair, Cully Wully will get those stupid puppy dog eyes. It’ll be grand.”

And with that she was off.

Everything else was a hazy, slightly chaotic, flurry of embracing and well-wishing. The Inquisition was mobilized. Perhaps this would be their last mission as such, but everyone was determined to see it through. They all felt like they had a stake in this, assured in having played their part to push two people together. There was an eagerness to see something good and something joyful come out of the sacrifices they had made. The “greater good” they’d done was often touted. But seeing the two of them stand next to each other, the Inquisitor practically beaming, the Commander slipping his hand quietly into hers. It was a bit of very real happiness they could all feel they brought to the world.

 

-

 

Ellana was assured that everything was well in hand, and was shooed off to meet Madame de Fer at the spa. They all seemed to think it was a splendid idea, that she would attain some perfect state of relaxation. She didn’t know _who_ they thought they were kidding. A morning with the Iron Lady was not her idea of calm.

Her entire body was scrubbed and scoured and pummeled with warm, smooth stones. Some sort of strange smelling mud was slathered over her face, rinsed away, and another strange smelling unguent was applied in its place.

Apparently this was the height of pampering and luxury. This was what well-heeled Orlesian ladies did with their leisure time. Ellana thought that leisure was terribly overrated.

When the “treatments” were finally all complete, and the two of them retired to the ornately tiled baths, she told Vivienne about the wedding.

“We’re going to try to keep it quiet for as long possible, of course,” Ellana said.

Vivienne laughed, “Oh, my dear, don’t be ridiculous. There is no way for you to keep it a secret, because you’ve already _told_ a dozen people. Eyes and ears are _everywhere_. Trying to keep it hidden is pointless.”

Madame de Fer leaned back against the colorful, patterned porcelain, stretching her legs out into the warm water. “And really, why would you _want_ to keep it a secret? Use it to your advantage. Every noble woman will be swooning when they hear of the Inquisitor and the Commander, so madly in love that they simply could not wait to wed. A secret ceremony on the eve of the Exalted Council, presided over by the Divine herself. A wedding night in the Winter Palace. Overcoming the barriers of status and race, throwing caution to the wind - the elven Herald of Andraste and the devastatingly handsome former Templar.”

“This could all work distinctly in your favor,” Vivienne continued. “A few whispers in the right ears, and their imaginations will do all the rest. Consider it my wedding gift. By tomorrow, half of Halamshiral will be grinning ear to ear if Cullen so much as looks in your direction.”

It wasn’t what Ellana would prefer, but Vivienne made a very good point. Even in Skyhold, gossip travelled at a dizzying pace. And in Orlais, it was currency. It was far more sensible to control the narrative from the start. She knew Cullen wouldn’t be happy about it. He was a tactician at heart, though, and would understand it was their best option.

 _Besides, if he wanted privacy, he chose the wrong place to propose_ , Ellana thought.

 

-

 

A shot of Dwarven whiskey, courtesy of Varric’s hip flask, had settled Cullen’s nerves. He tugged at his collar, smoothed his sash, and for once, he did not hate wearing the uniform.

He could hear a chorus of laughter coming through the wall from next door. The atmosphere in his room became decidedly more ominous, as the three men he _thought_ were his friends loomed behind him.

“You do realize that if you hurt her, I will have to kill you. Then I will reanimate you, and kill you again, but more slowly that time. Actually, I’d probably repeat the process several times…” Dorian said, staring into the distance for a moment, obviously giving it all much more thought than Cullen would've preferred. “Terrible mess, and quite a waste. I’m rather fond of you.”

“I have no intention of doing so…” Cullen sputtered.

“I know you don’t. Which is why we’re having this friendly little conversation, instead of me burying what’s left of you under a topiary. In all likelihood, you will make her ridiculously happy, and the rest of us vaguely nauseous.”

“Yeah, but if he doesn’t…” Varric chimed in. “Bianca and I won’t be happy either.”

“Better not fuck this up, Cullen,” Bull added, his tone disturbingly cheerful.

Dane nuzzled against his leg sympathetically, and Cullen felt relieved that someone seemed to have faith in him.

“Ah, c’mon, Curly… You know we’re just screwing with you,” Varric said. “Besides, we don’t even need to threaten you. If you _do_ mess up, she’ll just gut you herself. That’s how you know you’ve got someone worth keeping. Love, with a small measure of fear. Keeps you honest.”

“Is that really the best advice you have to give, Varric?” Cullen asked.

“You’re looking for advice from the three of _us?_ ” Varric chuckled. “Andraste’s tits, we should be asking _you._ Those two can’t decide what they’re doing, and you don’t have nearly enough time for me to even get started... You’re doing just fine, Commander.”

Varric poured another round for good measure, but Cullen waved it away. The first had done nothing to calm his nerves. He paced back and forth across the room instead. Listening for the sound of their footsteps echoing down the hallway. Waiting to meet her in the garden.

 

* * *

 

 

The sun was low in the sky. They stood under an arch of greenery, surrounded by their friends - their _family -_ and a mabari.

Cullen barely heard a word Cassandra said. Ellana wore white silk and a wreath of peonies and violets and forget-me-nots, and he was lost in the sight. Her hands were strong and deft and sure and fit so neatly into his own.

He remembered shouting orders at the soldiers in Haven, and she’d stood there beside him. She was curious, and intelligent. Not at all what he was expecting, and he’d been unable to resist the urge to smile when she teased him.

He remembered Haven and the Arbor Wilds and the Valley of Sacred Ashes and the dozens of places in between. She always came back.

He remembered sitting in the Chapel in Skyhold, finally summoning the courage to lean closer, the ache in his heart when it wasn’t close enough. How many times had he kissed her since then? He would kiss her every day now.

She squeezed his hands insistently, and flicked her eyes toward Cassandra. They were all looking at him. Waiting.

Cullen cleared his throat, “I swear unto the Maker and the Holy Andraste to love this woman the rest of my days.”

A blush spread over her cheeks, and he felt his own face grow warm.

Ellana spoke her vows, _“Sylaise enaste var aravel. Lama, ara las mir lath. Bellanaris.”_

She had told him the meaning of the words that morning, but _bellanaris_ was one he already knew. How fitting it seemed now. “The rest of his days” was simply not long enough - they would have eternity instead.  

 


	22. Entropy

Josephine gave her hand a reassuring squeeze, and they walked into the room together. All eyes were on them and truthfully, Ellana hadn’t felt so nervous since she’d woken up in the tiny cabin in Haven four years ago. Divine Victoria, Duke de Montfort and the Arl of Redcliffe were side by side, behind a raised table at the end of the room. The rest of the seats around them were filled with what seemed like every Chantry superior and nobleman in southern Thedas. She knew Cullen was somewhere amongst the crowd, but her eyes hardly knew where to look. As she and the Ambassador made their way to the small table and chairs in the center of the room, her fingers clasped around the coin in her pocket. 

Most of the morning was occupied with introductions and the menial tasks involved in outlining the purpose of the Exalted Council. A laundry list of the accomplishments and accusations against the Inquisition was read aloud. Concerns were voiced, grievances were aired. Ellana could barely keep herself from rolling her eyes when Arl Teagan complained about the Inquisition's “occupation” of Caer Bronach. Cassandra, however, didn’t hesitate to voice her of indignance.

“Excuse me Arl Teagan, but I was there when the Inquisition  _ liberated _ Caer Bronach. Are you implying that King Alistair would have preferred for it to remain in the possession of bandits? Because I can assure you,  _ they _ were the only occupants of the fort when we arrived there. The people of Crestwood were most effusive in their gratitude when we informed them that the violent thugs who threatened their homes and livelihoods had been evicted.” 

The Arl sputtered and blustered, but seemed loath to contradict the Divine, particularly when he knew that what she said was completely true. 

Ellana heard Josephine sigh beside her. The Ambassador had tried to tell Cassandra that defending the Inquisition would not help either of them. If she supported them too vigorously, it would only lead to further accusations of favoritism against the Divine, and greater resentment of the Inquisition. Preferential treatment from the Chantry did no one a favor. Neutrality had never been Cassandra’s strong suit, though.

Duke de Montfort saw an opening, his comments serving to both praise the Inquisition’s efficiency, and subtly insult Ferelden’s ability to defend itself. Of course, the Duke was also keen to point out that such efficiency was only in need of a “guiding hand.” Ellana rolled her eyes, surprised that the Orlesian was overplaying his hand so soon. 

Josephine navigated their bickering with the same grace and aplomb she had demonstrated over the past four years. She’d kept the wolves at bay with charm and a smile. It never ceased to amaze Ellana. Her own patience was razor thin, and they were barely a few hours into the proceedings. How she was going to get through days, or gods forbid  _ weeks _ , of this was a mystery.

Arl Teagan was beginning to work himself into a lather over some perceived slight, when Ellana felt a light tap on her shoulder. One of Leliana’s runners, a young elven woman with blonde hair and wary green eyes, stood quietly at her side. 

“I beg your pardon, Inquisitor, but Sister Leliana wishes to speak to you in private,” she said, kneeling down to whisper discreetly. 

Grateful as she was for  _ any _ excuse to escape, Ellana’s stomach sank at the thought of what Leliana wanted. Only something serious would compel her to interrupt an Exalted Council. 

“Josephine, I have to leave-”

_ “What?”  _ Josephine’s eyes widened, and flickered anxiously between Ellana and runner who stood patiently beside her.

“Leliana is asking to speak with me. Something  _ must _ be wrong, and-”

“Of course,” Josephine nodded. She took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. “Go. I will handle this.”

Ellana stood from the table as quietly as she could, watching the puzzled expression on the faces of those seated at the end of the room. 

“Excuse me,” she said aloud, bowing quickly before she made her exit.

She heard Arl Teagan shouting, _ “What is the meaning of this?” _ as she struggled to keep her steps calm and measured. From the corner of her eye, she could see Cullen rise slightly from his seat. Ellana gave him a pointed look, raising her hand slightly, hoping he understood that she meant for him to stay. More members of the Inquisition fleeing the chamber would only draw further attention, and further ire. 

Following the runner out of the Winter Palace, and across the cobblestone paths of Halamshiral, they came to one of the small houses near the inn. Soliders milled about nervously in the street, two more stood guard in front of the door. They both nodded as she approached, crossing their arms over their chests.

When they opened the door before her, she saw Leliana kneeling on the floor, in front of the body of a dead Qunari. 

_ Shit. _

Leliana looked up at her as she entered, and even the Nightingale’s eyes couldn’t hide her worry entirely.

“Inquisitor, I thought you would want to see this.” 

The body was slumped on the floor in a pool of his own blood, glassy eyes staring vacantly into the distance. A Qunari in Halamshiral would be obvious enough, but one dressed for battle, in an intricate suit of armor, would be impossible not to notice. 

“Have you spoken to Bull about this?” she asked.

Leliana nodded, “Yes, but he is just as confused as we are. Since becoming Tal-Vashoth, he has had no contact with his people.” 

Ellana sighed. She knew something would be waiting for her, but this? Problems on top of problems, once again. Fate always seemed to have a way of balancing the scales. “Dead Qunari soldier in the palace” was to be the event that offset “Inquisitor marries the Commander,” apparently. 

“What do we know so far, then? Anything?” 

The Nightingale stood, hands clasped primly behind her back. Her face calm and composed once again ass she replied, “This is a warrior, not a spy. One of the  _ antaam _ , Qunari military. Most of his wounds were caused by magic, but at least a few are from a blade. He was injured, separated from his party, and made it here before he died. But  _ how? _ ”

“That’s what we need to find out,” Ellana said.

 

* * *

 

“Is this really necessary?” Cullen asked, as she struggled with the small buckles on the side of her armor. 

Ellana sighed, “Cullen, there’s a dead Qunari warrior, and a trail of blood leading from an eluvian. We have no clue what he was doing here or how he activated an ancient elven artifact-”

“None of this makes any  _ sense _ ,” he interrupted. “The Qunari go so far as to sew the mouths of their mages closed, so why would they use an eluvian, something riddled with magic? And what if this was some sort of assassination attempt?  _ You _ are a likely target - what if they are simply luring you out? What if-”

“Cullen,  _ stop,”  _ she said, reaching up to place her hands firmly on his shoulders. “You’re right, none of this makes any sense. Maybe it’s a trap, maybe it’s an invasion, maybe it’s a Qunari who decided to take a shortcut and got lost…”

His eyes flickered with irritation, and she regretted the poor attempt at humor. He was worried. She couldn’t blame him - she was worried, too.  

She had something more now. She was tired of travel and distance, long absences punctuated with welcoming embraces, and the two of them desperately reacquainting themselves. Josephine and Leliana were readied for battle, but the fight was gone from her. 

Cullen’s arms were crossed, brow furrowed - yet again. There were far better places for his arms, and far more pleasant reasons for his brow to furrow. But instead it was the familiar situation they found themselves in. He would stay, she would go, and disaster would be averted.

“I know,” she said soothingly. “I know, and I hate this and… I don’t want to do it anymore. I’m tired of leaving, and you’re tired of waiting. I’ve been the Inquisitor and the Herald and the savior of every damn corner of Thedas for long enough. I just want it to be over.”

“Have you told Josephine this?” Cullen asked. 

“No. I should. I will. But we still can’t just walk away from the Council. If we stroll in tomorrow, and tell them we’ve decided to disband…”

“Then they’ll have the advantage - Orlais, Ferelden, the Chantry, all of them. If we don’t fight, then it’s tantamount to admitting to every criticism levelled against us. We must at least pretend that we wish to continue, so that we can disband on  _ our  _ terms. You’re right.” 

“Of course I am,” Ellana teased. “See? You’ve already learned the most important rule of being a husband - your wife is always right. You’re a very quick learner,  _ Commander _ .” 

The furrows shifted from his brow to the corners of his eyes, and his mouth pressed tightly against her own. She was fairly sure she could ask him to abandon the Council and help her invade Orlais, and he’d agree - if she said  _ his wife _ wished it. Ellana thought she should probably feel a tiny bit guilty. But it was simply too endearing. One little word, and his lips curled that boyish grin before he kissed her. 

Those same lips were more insistent now, though. Fingers pulling at the buckles she’d struggled to fasten, and she was tempted to let him. She wrapped her hands around his, though, pulling away from the kiss with regret. 

“I have to go,” she whispered. “Bull, Dorian and Sera are coming with me. And I’ve been through an eluvian before.”

“We’ll be fine. And I’ll come back. And the next time... it will be someone else’s mess to sort out.”

Cullen looked unconvinced, and she couldn’t blame him for that, either. His thumbs grazed across her knuckles as he held her hands. She inhaled deeply, hoping he wouldn’t say it. When Ellana felt his fingers press against the thin leather covering her left palm, she struggled to keep her hands still. Her jaw tensed, and she knew he saw it, knew he was watching her face closely, even though she kept her own eyes cast down.

“It’s getting worse,” he said. 

Cullen cradled her hand gently within his own now, lifting it to his lips.

“And I don’t know what to do. Please,” he pleaded, “just talk to me. Tell me what I can do.”

She’d hidden it, distracted him and lied at times. Because she didn’t know what to do - no one did. “Worries shared are worries halved,” Mother Giselle had told her a long time ago. This worry grew and spread, like others... Avoiding it was easier. 

“We’ll talk about the Anchor, we’ll talk about…” she paused. “We’ll  _ talk _ when I get back. I promise.”

They wouldn’t be gone long - it was just an exploratory mission. The Inquisitor slipping away for an afternoon, an evening, a day at most. Any longer would draw attention, and they needed to maintain the illusion that nothing was amiss. 

She didn’t want to leave him like this, not when everything should still be quiet and sweet and new between them. One last kiss, with everything she could summon. Hands lacing into her hair, and hips pushing forward into hers -  _ this _ was what she wanted, what they both wanted. Just a taste for now, but soon they would feast without worry or interruption, she promised herself. 

He left her at the door, daggers at her side, coin tucked under her armor. 

The Winter Palace was quiet. The sun had not yet risen. There were only a few servants casting sidelong glances as she stalked through the hallways. The cloak over her shoulders was a half-hearted attempt to conceal, and she hoped it bought her enough time to gather information before word began to spread. 

Sera was pacing back and forth in front of the bright blue arch of the doorway when she arrived. Bow slung over her back, she looked agitated. Ellana was surprised when she had volunteered to go with her. She thought going through an eluvian would definitely fall under the “elfy elf shite” category. But Sera had looked at her pointedly and stated “I’m coming, too,” before she could even ask Varric. He’d honestly looked more than a little relieved, likely glad he wouldn’t have to explain all of this to Seneschal Bran.

“I know what’s goin’ on with you…” Sera said, grabbing Ellana’s hand and pulling her further down the hall. “And you’re being friggin’  _ stupid.  _ I  _ told _ you not to be stupid!”

“Sera, I don’t have time for this-”

“Yeah, I know you don’t have  _ time. _ And don’t act like you don’t know that I know that you know. ‘Cause you  _ do. _ Know, I mean.”

Ellana rubbed her forehead, fingers kneading at the piercing ache right above her left eye. “I don’t-”

“Oh  _ shut up. _ I’m not an idiot. I’ve seen it before, plenty of times. And you’re being just as stupid as all of them, pretending all tra-la-la, nothing’s there, when it  _ is _ . And you’re being  _ extra _ stupid, goin’ off and fighting and stuff!” 

“You don’t know  _ anything _ , Sera. Just… mind your own business,” Ellana snapped. She was out of patience. Everything was fine. She had told herself this a thousand times already. Sera was probably just agitated over something that only made sense to herself, yet again. 

“Oh, fuck you very much! No, I’m not gonna mind my own business. ‘Cause I’m not gonna sit on my arse and watch you be an idiot! You’re not supposed to be doing all of this stuff! And you’ve got someone who  _ cares _ . You’re just gonna piss off and look around for some friggin’ pokey-horned pricks? For what?” 

Sera resumed pacing back and forth across the hall, her fingers twisting together anxiously. She stopped, looked at Ellana, and opened her mouth as if to speak, only to shake her head and resume pacing. The dusty sheets draped over the furniture rustled as she swept past them. 

Finally, she stopped again, and stood in front of Ellana, face creased with worry. “Something bad’ll happen if you keep it up. And I’ve seen  _ that _ plenty of times before, too. You don’t want that. That’s the shite that  _ breaks _ you.”

“Sera. I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ellana insisted, enunciating each word slowly, hoping it would finally sink in.

Sera grunted in irritation. “Yes. You. Do. So just stop. Don’t go off and fight just because everyone else is being a tit, and you think you’ve got to save the world again. ‘Cause it’s not just you.”

“Everything alright out here?” 

Bull stood stiffly beside the doorway, hand resting on the painted wood, eyeing them both suspiciously. Ellana was grateful that for once, Sera knew when to shut her mouth. 

“Everything is  _ fine,” _ she said, turning her back on Sera. She began to walk away, when her friend reached forward to grab her arm.

“Just wait, alright?” she rolled her eyes, and huffed with irritation. “ _ Please? _ ” 

“Give us a minute, Bull,” Ellana said. 

He nodded, eyes fixed on Sera - a warning glare. “You got it, Boss,” he said, slowly turning back into the small library. 

“I’m not good at this. I  _ know _ I’m not,” Sera began. “But you’re… theonlyfamilyI’vegot,” she said, mumbling the words together nervously, blurting it all out in a rush. Before Ellana could realize what was happening, Sera swept her into a hug. She smelled like vanilla and honeycomb and something unfamiliar but oddly comforting.

“I’m sorry,” Sera mumbled into her shoulder. “ _ Please _ don’t fuck it up.”

_ Too late. _

“I’m sorry, too,” Ellana said instead, patting her friend on the back. Pulling at threads, everything unravelling once again. But she knew she had to hold it together still. 

They walked into the room together. Books lined the walls, old and dusty tomes bound in a patchwork of leather and linen. In the center was the eluvian. She remembered clearly passing through one with Morrigan - the odd, flip-flopping feeling in her stomach, the brief moment of near weightlessness. 

Its surface swirled in a glowing pattern of blues. Shimmering, almost metallic, like the wings of the dragonflies she chased along the riverside as a child. Dorian watched, eyes hawkish, as she skimmed her finger across the surface. Ripples cascaded out in concentric circles, but her fingers were dry. There was no sensation other than a strange pull. Was this what mages felt - a tug at their core, luring them toward something strange and powerful in the most primal sense? 

She closed her eyes, and pushed through. Breath and light and balance lost momentarily. 

_ I’m going to be sick _ , she thought. 

Ellana pitched forward onto the rough stones. Everything was too bright, too intense. Waterfalls and floating pathways of stone. Trees everywhere, their branches covered in vividly colorful leaves. Enormous stone columns and statues completed the landscape.

Bull, Dorian and Sera pushed through the mirror behind her in turn, just as she picked herself up off the ground. Breathing in, focusing on the sound of the rushing water. The air smelled cool and damp, with a faint hint of ozone - the scent that came just before a lightning storm. Ellana’s eyes darted everywhere, taking in the otherworldly beauty, before they fell upon the trail of blood drops on the flagstones in front of them. 

“Well, we know this is where our Mystery Friend came from,” Dorian said, studying the red spattered steps.

They followed the trail to find another eluvian - glowing and active as well. Sera grumbled behind her as she pushed her body through once again. This time the transition was easier. 

She emerged to see stone walls and graceful arches illuminated by torchlight. Ellana wasn’t even sure they weren’t in Orlais anymore. At the foot a set of stairs, they found another body, dressed in the same elaborate armor as the one in the Winter Palace.  _ So much for my “lost Qunari” theory _ , Ellana thought.

“ _ Karashok,  _ a foot soldier. Must have been in the same squad,” Bull said. They looked at each other uncomfortably. She could see that he chafed at his lack of insight - a life spent as Ben-Hassrath meant he’d known much and revealed little. Now he was scrambling to put the pieces together just as much as the rest of them. 

When they emerged from the ruins, into the sunlight, they saw the flash - an explosion of green light in the distance. Ellana felt her ears pop from the pressure, as the wave of sound echoed toward them. A tower stood smoking in the distance across the lake, surrounded by lush, green mountains. 

The scene before them was far more disturbing though. Another active eluvian, and four more Qunari - all turned to stone where they stood. Their faces frozen in angry sneers, arms clutching their weapons tightly. They all stood along the edge of a huge circle of scorched, black soot. 

“What the frick is this?” Sera spat. 

“Magic.  _ Powerful _ magic,” Dorian said, edging carefully around the warriors-turned-statues. “Cast not long ago.” 

Ellana rubbed at the pain that now pulsed in her temple. They had no choice but to push on, to try to make some sense of the maze of mirrors and bodies, dead and frozen. 

With every eluvian they stepped through, new complications arose. More questions, fewer answers, and she feared for what was to come each time. Bull ducked low as he squeezed through the frame of each one. 

“Makes my horns feel…  _ tingly _ ,” he said. 

They passed through two more before they reached the smoking tower itself. As they bounded up yet another tall staircase, she could see glowing violet forms standing alert. 

Spirits. Elves. Armed and armored, standing guard. None of this made sense. Sera nocked an arrow in her bow, and stood beside her warily.

“Boss…” Bull said, voice low and laden with apprehension. 

One of the spirits moved forward, an ethereal maul slung over its back. The words came too fast - the pattern, the accent all a little off, a little strange. Confusion overwhelmed her as she tried to piece together what they were saying. A greeting, a question. The spirit seemed impatient, and she knew it was waiting for an answer. 

_ Fen’harel _ \- that word stood out. What did the trickster god have to do with any of this? Was this his temple? Or was it a threat, a warning? 

Her companions stared at her expectantly.  _ Everyone _ stared, spirit and mortal alike, and the brief silence quickly grew tense.

“I don’t understand,” she said, scrambling to find the right words. She had to say something.  _ “Andaran atishan setharan-” _

The spirit cut short her attempt, his reply an angry burst of Elven.

“Don’t think you got the secret password right,” Sera quipped, as the spirits rushed at them. 

Ghostly arrows whizzed past them as Sera loosed one of her own, and the battle began. Daggers clutched in her hands, Ellana swiftly dodged the fierce blows from the warrior’s maul. She hated fighting spirits - fighting mages and monsters, she could feel her blades bite into something tangible. But now they simply swiped through the air with little resistance, just a strange flash through their glowing bodies and a hum and buzz through her hands. 

Each of their glowing forms dissipated in turn, as a sheen of sweat blossomed over Ellana’s body. She was filled with a nervous, anxious energy. She had prepared for battle, but hoped it wouldn’t find her. She’d hoped the dead Qunari was simply a fluke, a mistake, more intrigue than threat. Maybe some misguided Orlesian noble had hired a few Tal’Vashoth, and all of this would be resolved quickly. 

But as she stood before the intricate mosaic, she knew none of this would be simple. Tiny golden tiles arranged in a pattern of shapes and swirls. She pulled the glove from her hand. Raising her palm, she felt the tug of the anchor and then powerful magic washing over her.

The sensation was like nothing she’d felt before. Empathy, imagery, memory merging and streaming into her. She sensed it, she understood what it conveyed but not  _ how.  _ Maybe she didn’t really understand the _ what _ either. 

For the first time in a very, very long while, she wished Solas was there. 

Dorian’s hand clutched at her shoulder, shaking her gently at first, then more forcefully. The tiles came back into focus briefly, quickly dissolving away before her eyes, and she turned to see his face filled with panic. His lips moved. His voice shouted, but the pattern of sounds still felt foreign and unrecognizable at first.

“I’m fine, Dorian,” she muttered, still feeling dazed. 

“What the fuck is going on?” Sera demanded. 

“I don’t… I’m not sure how to describe it. It was… an impression. This place was some sort of sanctuary, a very long time ago. A refuge for  _ slaves _ , Elven slaves. And… it said the  _ Dread Wolf _ welcomed them.” 

“Wait a minute… Wasn’t he some sort of baddie according to you lot? And how the frick is a  _ wall _ telling you all of this?” Sera asked. “This is fucked. All of it. Proper fucked.”

“Sera,  _ shut up,” _ Dorian snapped. “Yes, this place has magic, and it’s powerful, but we have absolutely no idea how reliable a narrator the person who placed it here was. The Elven gods, all of the stories and mythology - so much of the history is lost, and quite likely misunderstood. Let’s not jump to any conclusions.”

“Fen’harel was the god of misfortune,” Ellana said. 

The Great Betrayer, the Bringer of Nightmares, nipping at their heels. 

Another eluvian stood within the small room before them, and she wondered if that’s what awaited them on the other side - misfortune and mistakes.

 

-

 

They slipped through the eluvians again and again - more mosaics, more spirits and Qunari, all of it leaving her with more questions. The images she was shown brought more confusion - they claimed that Fen’harel wasn’t a God or a Betrayer, but an emancipator.  _ None _ of the Gods were actually gods at all, but simply powerful mages and slavemasters.  _ Evanuris _ , mortals who claimed divinity.

Everything she’d known and been taught - even though her faith had collapsed long ago, being told that her heritage was a lie cut deep. Her breath caught in her lungs, and her faced burned - the memory of her vallaslin, the thought that maybe Solas had told her a few truths after all. 

_ Had he walked in this rotunda in the Fade? _ Ellana wondered. All of it was ancient, but somehow familiar. Murals painted on the walls, depicting the markings being lifted from their faces. Freedom granted by the Great Wolf - its eyes following her around the room. 

The statue slid back, revealing a secret tunnel beneath. Weapons cached there by her ancestors, those who fought against the Evanuris. She thought she should feel a connection, but all she felt was that history repeated itself. The Inquisition, and its Inquisitor, were proof of that. 

Another eluvian, and Dorian hesitated this time. 

“Perhaps we should turn back. It’s been hours, and none of this is what we expected,” he said. “We were expecting the Qunari, but we weren’t expecting a network of these mirrors, and spirits, and…” 

He stared at her hand. Her  _ arm. _ The grimace on her face. 

“We need to keep going,” she said, sliding her glove back in place, slipping the impassive mask back over her face with effort. 

They moved forward, fighting through more Qunari. In the end, there were rooms filled supplies, bunks, bombs - and a plan of attack. It wasn’t the answer that she wanted.

“They’re acting like we’re at war,” Bull said.

“Are we?” Ellana asked.

“I don’t know, Boss. I wish I did.” 

She wished he did, too. This was supposed to be the end, and now it might only be another beginning that she didn’t have time for. 

 

* * *

 

“This makes no sense. The Qunari aren’t exactly friendly to the Inquisition, but they have no reason to attack us,” Josephine said. 

“Ferelden, Orlais, and the Inquisition gathered in one place. I’d say it makes perfect sense,” Ellana said. “When could they possibly find a better time to strike at all of us?”

The Ambassador shifted uncomfortably. Leliana nodded, and Ellana appreciated that at least the Spymaster was honest enough to admit the uncomfortable reality. 

“I’ve placed the mirror under guard for now,” Cullen said. “And to think I believed the world could go a few years without falling to pieces…” 

“We must ensure the Qunari do not disrupt the negotiations. The Exalted Council is in a very delicate state.” 

“I think we have far bigger issues to contend with than the nobles’ ruffled feathers,” Cullen said.

“We won’t have  _ any _ issues to contend with if these negotiations fail!” Josephine shouted. “Would  _ you _ care to convince the nobility that they should not be insulted when the Inquisitor walks out in the middle of the talks?”

“I didn’t mean-”

“Then what  _ did _ you mean, Commander? Because it seems to me that you do not grasp the importance of what we are trying to do here. I understand that your attention might be focused elsewhere, but  _ some of us  _ are still committed to ensuring that the Inquisition is independent and operational for as long as possible.” 

They all stared at the normally placid Antivan, dumbstruck. They’d seen others on the receiving end of her ire, but with the inner circle she had always maintained her composure.

Leliana finally broke the silence, “Josie, that is unfair.” 

“No,” Cullen said. “No, she is quite right. I apologized, Josephine, unreservedly. We owe our continued existence to your efforts.”

“Thank you, Cullen,” Josephine said, color rising to her cheeks. She cleared her throat and continued, “Our position is not hopeless, but our only advantage at present is that Orlais and Ferelden are divided in their goals. If they unite against us, Divine Victoria will have no choice but to support their claims. We could lose  _ everything.” _

“The Qunari could rip all of this apart before it even gets to that, though,” Ellana said. “They have to be our top priority, for now. I’m sorry, Josephine.” 

“We all have our parts to play,” she said gravely. “I will attend to the Council.” 

“And while Josie does that, we will continue to investigate,” Leliana added. 

The tension was still palpable as they all filed out of the room. Cullen fell into step beside her, eyes glancing up and down the empty hall before he slipped his hand into hers. 

“This is all a mess,” he said. “I’m going to have word with our honor guard…”

They walked together, but Cullen seemed to be having a silent conversation all his own. Barking out orders, dressing down soldiers, she felt his fingers squeeze tighter each time his lips pressed into a hard line.

Ellana stopped at the intersection with a small corridor, pulling her hand gently away from Cullen’s. 

“I need to speak with Dorian about something. Why don’t you take Dane for a walk?” 

She forced a smile, seeing the ridge reforming above the bridge of his nose. 

“I’ll just a be a moment, I promise. Then I’ll see if I can bribe a servant to bring us cake.” 

Cullen stood still for a moment, studying her, before he nodded. She placed a swift peck on his cheek, and he turned to continue down the hall. 

Ellana breathed a small sigh of relief, but the feeling was short lived. She stood in front of Dorian’s door, heart in her throat, for a long moment. Her hand clasped in a fist, paused just above the surface of the mahogany. 

Should could still walk away. 

She blinked away tears from the corners of her eyes, but she knocked.

  
  



	23. Comment Te Dire Adieu

The minute she stepped out of the eluvian, two Inquisition guards snapped to attention. 

“Inquisitor, the Commander wishes to speak to you immediately in your quarters,” the soldier told her, before returning to his position beside the mirror. Their movements, and stillness, were precise to an almost mechanical degree. 

“Thank you, Lieutenant…Madoc?” she said, more of a question than a statement. Ellana recognized the man - tall, ruddy complexion, scar above of the corner of his left eye that truncated his brow. He was Fereldan, from a village near West Hill, sister died in the last Blight, liked the same dreadful ale as Cullen. But she was barely able to stand on her feet, and Ellana hoped her exhaustion was so apparent that the guard would forgive her lack of recall.

“Yes, Your Worship, it is Madoc” he replied, looking pleased she’d remembered. And pleased the Commander had chosen him for this position. Standing in one spot for hours on end, just to relay a message, would seem like miserable slot on the duty roster most of the time. But, being personally chosen by the Commander of the Inquisition to stand guard next to an ancient elven artifact in the Winter Palace, waiting for the Inquisitor, who also happened to be the Herald of Andraste and his  _ wife _ , to emerge from that artifact, and for him to deliver an important message to her… That was a story he would tell his grandchildren.

She slowly plodded out of the room, grateful that she was able to put one foot in front of the other. Dorian and Bull had already gone ahead, presumably to steal a few hours of rest while they still could. Sera waited outside, perched against the railing near the stairs. 

Ellana expected another earful, but instead Sera walked silently beside her through the halls of the Winter Palace. It seemed that even Red Jenny was too tired to put up a fight.

Everything had spiraled out of control so gloriously over the past several days. Their future swayed precariously in the balance. Her detractors would certainly be pleased by the potential to watch the Inquisition thrown into a ring and torn to shreds. Nevermind the fact that  _ all _ their futures were jeopardy, or that it would fall to her once again to save them. 

Sera paused as Ellana began to turn down the hallway toward her quarters. “Go see what Cully Wully wants. I’ll go talk to Josie and Leliana. And… get some rest, yeah?”

“Thank you, Sera,” she said. Ellana appreciated that she was willing to run interference. Things had become tense again, with the war room seeming more like a war zone between the four of them. Josephine and Cullen’s carefully brokered peace was already faltering again.

Another Inquisition soldier was stationed outside the door of her room. She couldn’t even place a name to his face, and felt disappointed. The days when she tried to learn all their names, their faces, their stories, were long gone. She was sure Cullen had hand-picked him as well. Cullen did nothing by half-measures, especially where he perceived her safety was concerned.

When she returned from their last trip through the eluvians, Ellana had chosen her words very carefully. She was calm, concise, factual. But there wasn’t really any way to make “we exploded several stores of gaatlok and ran for our lives from a flooding mine” sound less dangerous. Where she’d expected to see worry, there was a quiet fury in Cullen’s eyes.

After the Arl and the Count interrupted their meeting with accusations against one of their own, detaining the guard had seemed like the best way to defuse the situation. Inciting further resentment would only make it more difficult for them to defuse the Qunari plot. But Cullen took this as a personal slight against his soldiers, and his leadership, despite her best efforts to explain the fine line the Inquisition walked in Halamshiral. 

His exhaustion had made him stubborn again. It was a reminder of the past, the days when she wasn’t his, but she still worried for her friend. When she brought him tea and talked and listened, even if she thought she loved another then. He always worked so hard to project his strength, that she forgot he could be weak, too. Those were the times she knew he needed her, but they were also the times he tended to push back.

Their personal and professional lives were awkwardly entangled. He insisted he wasn’t angry with her. She insisted that she trusted him absolutely. But he was still agitated, and had hardly slept in the past two days. Scrutinizing every aspect of the Inquisition’s security, he’d spent most of his time pacing the halls and barking out orders. At least he had Dane, barking alongside him.

The guard saluted her stiffly as she approached. “Inquisitor, the Commander is in a meeting, but asked that I send a runner as soon as you returned,” he said.

“In a meeting with whom?” 

“Ah… I’m sorry, but he didn’t say, Inquisitor. Only that he was to be notified  _ at once _ when you returned,” he said, glancing anxiously down the hall. 

She nodded, and dismissed the soldier, who was obviously eager to avoid the Commander’s wrath and complete his task. 

The room was cold, and the bed obviously hadn’t been slept in since she left. Sharp corners on the sheets, not a wrinkle on the pillows. The folded blanket on the corner of the floor was still there, even though Dane slept in the stables while they were wrapped up in the mess this Exalted Council had become. A servant had kindly mentioned that one of the grooms was Fereldan, and would jump at the chance to look after the Commander’s mabari. 

She peeled out of her armor, leaving the scarred pieces of drakeskin on the floor where they dropped. Cullen would be back soon. There would be more meetings, more planning, probably more arguing, and then through the eluvian again to finally track down the Viddasala. Eyelids heavy, she swayed on her feet, before lying down on top of the neatly made bed. She pulled a blanket from the foot of the bed. Draped in warm, gray fur, sleep soon overwhelmed her. 

 

-

 

Cullen didn’t return to their room at all. A quiet knock on the door woke her a short while later. A different guard this time, informing her that Lady Nightingale requested the Inquisitor’s presence in her quarters at once.

There was a sense of urgency about everything these days. 

She dressed quickly, leaving her armor abandoned on the floor, breathing deep as she fiddled with the multitude of buttons on the coat. She hated it, but wearing it was small concession for Josie’s sake.

The three of them were huddled around a table, in a dimly lit back room of the Winter Palace. Maps and candles and scrolls were scattered everywhere on its surface. Obviously Sera had broken the news of what they learned, judging from the anxious and displeased looks on all their faces. Leliana began with news of her own. Her agents confirmed that gaatlok barrels were found in Val Royeaux and in nearly every noble house across the Free Marches. The Winter Palace was not the only target - the Qunari were plotting to eliminate the rulers of most of southern Thedas. 

“Well, there is a bright side,” Josephine, ever seeking to be the optimist, chimed in. “Warning the ambassadors will remind them of the Inquisition’s value.”

“Not when the Inquisition is responsible for that threat,” Leliana replied, scuttling Josie’s optimism. Cullen’s clenched fist hovered over the table.

“How is the Inquisition responsible for any of this?” Ellana demanded. All this time, their strongest play had been that the Inquisition was blameless. They may not have been forthcoming with the facts, but now Leliana was telling them that they were complicit in the chaos they sought to resolve. 

“The elven servant handling the barrels has disappeared. Notes in his quarters suggest that he was a Qunari spy,” Leliana said. 

The sharp hiss of Cullen’s breath was all they heard as he turned away from the table. But Ellana could hear the unspoken “I told you so.” 

“You might as well just say it, Cullen,” she said with frustration. “I chose to placate the nobles, and detained one of our own instead of a Qunari spy.”

And it wasn’t just Cullen who had told her so… Sera had as well. She’d spoken to Ellana days ago, insistent that something was “off” with the servants in the Palace. No complaints, no requests for the Jennies. It was all too calm and quiet.

“But the servant was Orlesian,” Josephine insisted. “That implicates Orlais, not us.”

“But the barrels arrived at the Winter Palace on the Inquisition’s supply manifest,” Leliana said. 

Cullen stalked back to the table, steadfastly refusing to meet Ellana’s gaze. “How are we supposed to fight a war when we can’t even trust our own people?” 

She bristled at his remark - wondering whether he was implying that she didn’t trust him, or that perhaps he could not trust her judgement. She wasn’t sure which was worse, but chose to ignore both, asking Leliana, “Do you know who got the barrels onto the Inquisition manifest?”

“Yes,” the spymaster replied hesitantly. “Several of the Inquisition’s elven workers have gone missing. I had their backgrounds checked. They joined the Inquisition after fleeing the chaos in Kirkwall.”

The previous detente between Cullen and Josephine was swiftly broken. The ambassador lamented that the Inquisition she defended had become a bastion of corruption. Accusations flew freely - against Cullen for all but seizing control of the Winter Palace, against Leliana for hiding the Qunari body from the start, against Ellana for enabling them both rather than seeking help from Orlais and Ferelden.

“We did what was right, not what was politically convenient!” Cullen snapped. 

“Do you know what this has cost us?” Josephine said, her voice rising with each word. “They are planning to dismantle us as we speak!”

“They have been planning to dismantle us from the start!” Cullen said. “We were never going to walk away from this Council intact. And you would have us bend over backwards to cater to both of them, when the blame can hardly be laid entirely in our lap!” 

The argument was ended by a flash of green and hint of ozone that wafted through the air. Ellana clutched tightly at her hand as she turned away from them - the pain seared through her bones and a single sharp gasp escaped her lips. The room was silent but for her labored breath, until she heard the sound of Cullen’s footsteps rushing to her side. 

“It’s getting worse,” he said, his hands hovering near her - afraid to touch, to make things worse. 

“How long has this been going on?” Leliana asked

“Too long,” Cullen said, not taking his eyes from Ellana. “I’ve spoken with Vivienne. That is where I was, why I wasn’t there when you returned. There is a mage at the White Spire in Val Royeaux - she says he is one of the foremost experts in elven artifacts and several forms of obscure magic, and-”

“Cullen-”

“Please, just listen to me,” he pleaded. “We must do  _ something  _ now _ , _ I cannot-” 

_“Cullen_ ,” she said, leaning in, resting her forehead gently against his. “You know I have to do this. The Qunari have to be stopped, and I have to get to the Darvaarad while I can still fight.” 

She was so sorry to crush his hope. He’d gone to Vivienne, heart in his hand, and the Iron Lady had given him a spark. He needed a plan, an means of action . A Commander didn’t sit by, and watch his forces crumble before his eyes. He fought, by whatever means necessary.

Josephine and Leliana stepped quietly toward the door. They would inform the Council. They would pray for the Maker’s blessing. They would give them one last moment of peace, away from prying eyes.

“Why must it be you?” he asked.

“When I come back, we  _ will  _ go to Val Royeaux,” she said, not answering his question. “We’ll lie together on silk sheets, and watch the ships sail into the harbor. I’ll drag you into the little shop where I found the blue lace, and you will blush right down to the tips of your toes.” It was a lie, but such a good one. A raft for him to cling to while she weathered the storm without him.

“And then,  _ ma vhenan _ , you can take me to the White Spire, or anywhere else you wish. I will do whatever they ask. I will answer every question, submit to every test. Then my hands will be only yours again, just as my heart is.” 

Their embrace was such a bitter one, she wanted her words to be only sweet. 

“This is not goodbye,” he insisted.

“Of course not. You just have to wait again, only a little while longer. After that, after all of this, we’ll pack our things and set sail and throw our worries into the Waking Sea.”

He leaned in close, but there were too many tears. She didn’t want their last to be alike this - sad and stained with salt. 

“No, my love, not like that,” Ellana said, tilting away from him. “Tell me... Where will you kiss me first, when I come back?”

He told her everything with that kiss. Her lips, soft and perfect and expressive, they betrayed her so often. Smiling when she sought to be serious. Opening just slightly even when she wanted to tease, to make him wait. He told her that a single kiss was never, ever enough. That he needed more of her, more time, more life together. He told her that she was his one, his only, his all. And when his tongue traced along hers, he begged. He would shatter his pride and burn every shred of his dignity, if only he could keep her. When his lips pressed to hers, he asked the one thing he knew she couldn’t give, even though it was all that he wanted. Her. Here. Safe. Whole. 

When she pulled back, his cheeks were wet again. She swiped the tears away with her sleeve - intruders, stealing their last moments of relief, tainting the memory she wanted to give him. 

“And where will you touch me first, when I come back?” she asked, tracing her fingers along the tense line of his jaw.

_Let him forget,_ _let me forget,_ she thought. _Just for a little while._

Cullen locked the door before he answered her.

“First, and last, and  _ always _ here,” he said, chasing breath from her again. His eyes were dry as he watched hers close, sliding into the place that was only his. Everything in his life had been shared until her - chairs and beds and swords and scars. First with siblings, then with soldiers. She was the only thing that was well and truly  _ his _ . His treasure. His secret. His vessel. With her, he made moments that he wouldn’t have to speak of or share with anyone else. 

He knew they should be in a bed, on those silk sheets she promised. But need overwhelmed them both, and they had to take what comfort they could, in the time that remained. She was beautiful and perfect every time, even when all he had to lean against a cold marble pillar. 

He brought her to the edge, and as she fell, he held her. Cullen swore to himself that this would be the very last time he sent her away. 

 

 

* * *

 

Naming military operations was a rare moment of poetry for a commander. It was important to choose just the right touch of mythology and metaphor, to obscure the brutal nature of what was to come. History was written by the victors. And a leader always hoped to be victorious. They knew the name would be written down by scholars and read by generations to come. Their blood would be a lesson, a testament to greatness - one which needed a fitting title.

Apparently the Qunari did not subscribe to this school of thought. 

Bull and Jerran, the former Templar, had provided enough information for them to piece together that Darvaarad was a sort of magical quarantine site, run by a branch of the Ben-Hassrath. This place was the stronghold from where they would carry out their plan.

When they stepped together into the Qunari fortress, though, Ellana realized that “Operation Dragon’s Breath” was, quite literally, a dragon. 

She didn’t know how history would remember her. She didn’t really care. They had fought dragons before - they had fought all manner of fearsome things. Maybe future generations would call her crazy for freeing it in the end, and perhaps they would be right.

But while they fought, blood and sweat and flame filling her nostrils, her mind was elsewhere. Her thoughts were still fixed on what they had seen already on this island. 

Arrows and magefire rained down, and her blades slipped expertly under scales. She and Bull were caught in a tangle of tail and teeth, and he smiled as they fought.  _ The _ Iron Bull (because the article was important) relished every moment, exhilarating in the rush of battle. He was fighting something that, at the very worst, would give him a good death. A dragon was not an adversary, but an equal. Ellana envied him the simplicity of his emotions - rage and lust. 

Sera was pulled just as taut as the string of her bow. She kept score, a steady count to keep her grounded and chase away the worry. Every arrow that hit its mark was a greater chance for them all to make it back alive. Dagna needed someone to remind her how brilliant she was.

Dorian was her shield now. He’d seen the look on Cullen’s face when they left, and understood that it was his mantle to take up. After a lifetime of fuck ups and failures, there was too much at stake for him to screw this up. He would not disappoint them. He would not let his father be right.

Ellana’s movements were swift and practiced. She had done this before, and was grateful that her body remembered the steps. Because all she could think of was the tower they went through first - crammed full of pillaged goods, puzzles and artifacts. The spoils of a war the Qunari fought in the shadows, seeking to dismantle the people they saw as aberrations. To know them, to understand them, and then to bring them to heel. The Qun was order from chaos.

But they could not see what she did. In a small fresco, she found something greater - absolute truth.

When the Viddasala stood in front of the mirror after the battle, stalking back and forth, making speeches about time and manipulation and that very same  _ truth _ , Ellana almost laughed through the pain. 

The Qunari were simply obstacles, each and every one of them. Warriors who followed blindly. Mages silenced by their own power. A leader who spoke pretty words, who professed great understanding, but in the end was utterly ignorant of real truth. 

Stepping through the last eluvian, Ellana was overcome with a feeling of clarity. For once, she had a sense of what was waiting on the other side. 

 

-

 

Dorian banged his palms against the mirror. The shimmering blue pulse of magic was gone, and only his own pained reflection stared back at him. 

“Ell!  _ Ell!”  _ he screamed, panicked fingers clawing at the glass, as his knees sank to the ground. He drew breath in short, desperate gasps.

He knew, he  _ knew _ , and he still let her walk through first. Now the eluvian was cold and dim and closed, with her on the other side. 

_ He wouldn’t hurt her. Would he?  _

_ “Fasta vass!” _ he shouted, slamming his fists against the surface once more. A dull, reverberating thud echoed around them, as the eluvian shook against the force of his blows. “We can’t just leave her! She-”

“Dorian,” Bull said, voice cold and commanding. “Stop.”

“You don’t  _ understand _ . I don’t give a  _ fuck _ about the Qunari or that lying prick. We cannot leave  _ her _ there.” 

_ “Kadan,”  _ Bull said, placing his hand firmly on Dorian’s shoulder. Dorian looked up at him, but could only shake his head back and forth mournfully. 

“He will kill me if something happens,” Dorian said, sliding his empty hand into place on top of Bull’s. “And well he should.”

“This is my fault,” Sera mumbled. “Fucking bald fucking egg is working for fucking  _ Fen’harel _ , and of fucking course he does this.”

She turned to Dorian, her eyes manic, “You’re a mage. Do…  _ magey _ stuff! Open it up!”

Dorian stared at the staff in his hand, rolling the cold silverite across his fingers. Expertly crafted, touched by the Fade, and completely useless to him now. 

“I can’t,” he said. “Morrigan was rather tight-lipped… amongst other things. And there aren’t exactly an abundance of eluvians in Tevinter for me to tinker with on my own. If I make a mistake, she can’t come back through.  And we can’t take that risk.”

“So, what? We just sit here and wait?” Sera snapped. 

“Yes, Sera,” Bull said, settling himself down onto the ground next to Dorian. “That is exactly what we do.”

She chewed at her nails as she paced, teeth tearing down to the quick. “This is bad. This is so bad,” she muttered. 

Her steps paused for a moment, and Bull watched as a knowing look passed between her and Dorian. He said nothing, but could sense there was something more, something he was missing. The knowledge rankled him - he was used to being privy to secrets and subterfuge. His connections were severed, and he didn’t enjoy fumbling in the dark like everyone else. It stung that Dorian knew, and hadn’t told him. But he understood - loyalty was something his kadan took seriously, and he was  _ fiercely _ loyal to her. Bull would expect nothing less. 

It was one of the things he loved most about him.

“Sera, sit down,” Bull said, his voice a low rumble.  

She glared at him, then rolled her eyes and fell beside him in a huff. Legs crossed over one another, she hunched her body forward against them, chin resting between her palms. 

“She’ll come back. Always comes back.” 

“And after she does,” Bull said, “then, we have a wolf to hunt.”

 

 

* * *

 

She emerged alone, her stomach rising and falling one final time. She felt a brief flash of fear until she realized that the warriors surrounding her weren’t moving - they had been turned to stone, the same as the others she’d seen before. Stumbling amongst the frozen circle of Qunari, Ellana turned back to the mirror - its surface was dark and still now. Her friends weren’t coming. 

_“Ebasit kata. Itwa-ost.”_ She didn’t understand the harsh language of the Qunari, but she knew the voice. A dagger through her heart. He’d held its broken pieces, just as he’d held the broken shards of the orb. And mended though it was now, the memory of that pain felt fresh with every syllable that rolled off his tongue. 

She heard the Viddasala’s reply, angry and guttural, and her feet moved of their own accord. Rushing, racing through the ruins, toward the voices. Pushing her tired body up the final step - the stone was cracked and tilted, little blades of grass pushing ambitiously through the tiny voids. Reaching towards the sun as she always had. 

His back was facing her, and it seemed appropriate. Walking away was what he did best, after all. The Viddasala’s arm reared back, spear hoisted, ready to launch. An angry grunt escaped her lips, and then he paused. He stood still for a moment, nothing more. He didn’t turn, he didn’t look back, he said no words. But the Viddasala stilled. Life and breath and rage snuffed out in an instant, accompanied only by an eerie crackling sound.

And as if nothing had happened, his moved forward again.  _ He doesn’t even bother to survey the carnage anymore,  _ she thought. 

Ellana hesitated. Were it not for the fact that the eluvian had gone dead behind her, she would have let him leave. It was selfish, and maybe she would have regretted it later. But she was on the brink of escape and joy - why not let him walk away and take the trouble with him? It would be someone else’s battle. 

His posture shifted, and she knew that he heard her, felt her there. It was up to her to break the silence once again.

“Solas,” Ellana said, her voice weak and she hated herself for it. 

His armor was golden and gleaming, the pelt draped elegantly from his shoulder - he’d not lost his sense of irony, it seemed. Chin tilted upward, he turned his head slowly. Was she friend or foe now? Would she be made a statue, just as the others? Would they carry her back through the eluvian? Would Cullen weep at her feet, touch her face, frozen in eternal confusion? The questions raced through her mind.

Light and pain and energy brought her to her knees. Clutching her hand once more, the scream slipped from her lips unbidden. Her vision blurred at the edges, she heard the sound of blood rushing through her ears. Intense and excruciating, the sensation squeezed the air from her lungs. 

When she regained herself and looked up, he stared at her calmly. He stood,  _ Pride,  _ and she was bowed, brought low before him.

His eyes flashed strangely, grey-blue shifting to a pale, bright glow. But the pain stopped, and the Mark on her hand calmed. Her humble apostate. Her lonely mage. She’d felt so much for him, but never this much fear. The facade was stripped away, and she saw what lied beneath - power that flowed as easily as breath. What sort of plaything had she been to him? 

“That should give us more time,” he said, and his voice was gentle. His lips - lips that had kissed and coaxed and broken and bent - curved into a rueful smile.

“I suspect you have questions.”

“When did that ever matter? It’s not as if you answered them,” she replied. His smile faltered. It was small and petty, but the slip gave her a bit of guilty joy.

“The Qunari already answered some of them. The rest I found traveling through the eluvians. You’re Fen’harel. You’re the Dread Wolf,” The simple truth had been staring her in the face the entire time, and she lamented her ignorance. The trickster, the deceiver, the liar she’d welcomed into her bed. A self-portrait had all but assured her that myth and memory were one and the same.

“Well done,” he said, falling back into the old role so easily. He the master, she the pupil. Teaching everything, telling nothing. His praise was doled out in careful measures.

“I was Solas first. “Fen’harel” came later… an insult I took as a badge of pride. The Dread Wolf inspired hope in my friends and fear in my enemies… Not unlike “Inquisitor,” I suppose,” he mused. 

“Is  _ that _ how we are to play this, then? You and I, two sides of the same coin? Poor, misunderstood Solas or Fen’harel or whatever you call yourself…” she sneered. 

“I only meant that you know the burden of a title that all but replaces your name,” he said. 

“But I  _ told _ you my name. I told you  _ everything. _ Am I supposed to be grateful that you’re telling me the truth now?” 

“What sort of reaction was I to expect if I had told you then?” he shot back. “Telling you that the Dalish and your legends were wrong, that-”

“Legends you _knew_ I barely believed at all! And after everything, all of that push and pull and… You take me to Crestwood,” her voice wavered. “You take me there, tell me half the truth, lead me right up to it. And then you walk away. I… I would have followed you _gladly_ then.”

She saw his jaw tighten, but she didn’t look away. Where she turned from Solas to hide her hurt, she would meet the Dread Wolf’s gaze. She was strong and loved and wouldn’t flinch.

_ “Ma harel lasa,”  _ she spat.  _ “Always.” _

“Only by omission,” he replied. 

“Is that how you justify it? Or did you feel no need to do so? Who was I, but a pleasant distraction.” 

“You were-” he began, catching the rest of the words before they escaped. Truth or lies, she’d never know. But written in his features, she saw something unexpected. The tightness in her chest eased a fraction, even though she wanted to hold onto her anger like a lifeline. Remorse. Regret. Something like it flickered across his face. 

_ “Ir abelas.”  _

_ “Tel’abelas! _ Don’t you dare apologize to me, not when you don’t really mean it,” she said. “Why are you even here, Solas?” 

“I sought to set my people free from slavery to would-be gods. I broke the chains of all who wished to join me. The false gods called me Fen’harel, and when they finally went too far, I formed the Veil and banished them forever. Thus I freed the elven people and, in doing so, destroyed their world.”

“And you did it at Skyhold,” she said, another piece sliding into place.  _ “Tarasyl’an te’las.  _ The spirit in the library said it - after you “held back the sky” to imprison the gods, you disappeared. That’s how you knew where it was. You never saw it in the Fade, you were  _ there _ . _ ”  _

“How you must have laughed at us…” Ellana sighed. “All you ever had to say was that you saw it in the Fade, and we simply went along with it.”

“No. Never at you. You always surprised me,” he replied, looking at her with a familiar hint of pride before glancing away again. “Corypheus should have died unlocking my orb. When he survived, my plans were thrown into chaos. After you survived, I saw the Inquisition as the best hope this world had in stopping him. And you needed a home. Hence, Skyhold.” 

“So you truly gave the orb to Corypheus?”

“Not directly,” he said coolly. “My agents allowed the Venatori to locate it. The orb had built up magical energy while I lay unconscious for millenia. I was not powerful enough to open it. The plan was for Corypheus to unlock it, and for the resulting explosion to kill him. Then I would claim the orb. I did not foresee a Tevinter magister having learned the secret of effective immortality.” 

“I’d say that foresight is not exactly your strength,” Ellana said. “And what would you have done with the orb after you recovered it, had your original plan succeeded?” 

“I would have entered the Fade, using the mark you now bear. Then I would have torn down the Veil. As this world burned in the raw chaos, I would have restored the world of my time… the world of the elves.” 

She stared into his eyes, wondering that he could so calmly describe the destruction of everything she had ever known. He thought nothing of erecting and tearing down the barriers between waking and dreaming, then tearing down the very fabric of the only world she knew. He had lived for millennia, and what was she in the face of such a span of time? A breath, a sigh, easily forgotten.

“I meant nothing to you. I was a means to an end. You called me your heart, but do you even have one?” 

“You must understand,” he said, stepping closer to her, his voice growing more insistent. “I awoke in a world where the Veil had cloaked most people’s conscious connection to the Fade. It was like walking through a world of Tranquil.” 

“But it was a Veil  _ you _ created!” she shouted. “And now you’re going to murder countless people,  _ my _ people, to bring back the elves you locked away? You’ve decided you want to restore a society built on slavery and false gods, because you think somehow it will be better the second time around?” 

“I did not lead a rebellion against immortal mage-kings without getting my hands bloody.” Those hands were no longer clasped calmly behind his back, but clenched angrily at his sides. “You can try as you like to take the moral high ground,  _ Inquisitor.  _ But do not pretend you don’t have blood on your hands as well.” 

“It is  _ your _ fault that I became the Inquisitor in the first place! I touched  _ your _ orb! How can you not see this? We are just… ants scurrying around a world that you created by mistake.”

He opened his mouth, but biting back another retort as his expression softened. “No, it was not all a mistake.  _ You _ were not a mistake. You showed me that I was wrong about many things. All of you. You were real, you were people… like all the rest I have used in one hopeless battle after another. That does not make what I must do next any easier.” 

“Why must you do it, then?” Ellana demanded. 

The circular logic, paths leading back to the same beginning. How many times had she done this with him? She’d thought him wise, thought it was her lack of intellect, when he was just stubbornly fixated on his own vision.

“Because it is my failure to fix. I lay in dark and dreaming sleep while countless wars and ages passed. I woke still weak a year before I joined you. My people fell for what I did to strike the Evanuris down, but still some hope remains for restoration. I will save the elven people, even if it means this world must die.” 

“So we all must pay for your failure, then. You  _ are _ a coward,” she said bitterly. 

“I am. And you deserved better.”

_ At least he’s finally being honest _ , she thought. 

“I still do not understand, though.  _ Why?  _ Why does this world have to die in order for the elves to return? Why does one preclude the other?”

“You deserve an answer, but I regret I cannot give one. You have always shown a… a thoughtfulness I respected. It would be too easy to tell you too much,” he said. “I am not Corypheus. I take no joy in this. But the return of my people will mean the end of yours.” 

His hand moved forward a fraction before he stopped, taking a small step back from her. He straightened his shoulders, mouth set in a hard line. 

“In stopping the Qunari’s plan, you prevented an invasion. With luck, they will return their focus to Tevinter. That should give you a few years of relative peace.” 

“Why bother stopping the plot if you’re going to destroy the world anyways?” A swift death, a slow death - she could hardly expect someone who had lived for thousands of years to know the difference.

“Because I am not a monster, no matter what you may think of me. Perhaps rightly so. You have shown me there is value in this world, and I would see its people die in comfort, free of the Qun.” 

“A gentle death… your parting gift. How thoughtful,” she said.

Ellana doubted her own death would be so gentle, as the Anchor flared again. Falling, doubled over in pain, she clutched at her hand, her arm, but the agony spread within her. 

This time, Solas fell to his knees with her. 

“It’s getting worse,” she whimpered.

“And we are running out of time,” he said, reaching out to her. “Take my hand.  _ Please. _ ” 

She did. Her mind swirled with pain and anger and hurt and confusion, but if he could offer her relief, she would take it. 

“The mark would eventually kill you. Drawing you here gave me the chance to save you… at least for now.” 

The glow ebbed again, and he released her. He pulled the pelt from his shoulder, and began unfastening his armor, solemnly and methodically placing the pieces on the ground beside them. When only his linen tunic was left, he grasped the edge, ripping a long strip from the hem. 

His hands touched her arm again, gently straightening it, as he began to tie the strip above her elbow. A makeshift tourniquet - she’d seen the healers do this in the field to others. But not to her, never to her.

“Does he make you happy?” Solas asked, as his hands tightened the not. 

“Yes. Very,” she said, surprised by his question. She hesitated before she added, “Which is why I married him.” 

Solas only nodded. Ellana was sure he already knew, not that it made a difference. Perhaps there was some vague hope that her joy gave him anguish, recompense for the anguish he caused her. But it seemed pointless now. Her world had shifted and changed and was different -  _ she _ was different. The Ellana that had loved him was gone, and she was glad for it.

She could feel the blood pooling in her limb, nerves tingling under the purpled skin. He wrapped both of his hands around her forearm. 

“Close your eyes. Please,” he said. His voice was sad and plaintive now, and her heart raced because she knew what coming. Her body trembled uncontrollably. The pity in his eyes was the last thing she saw, as she took the small kindness he offered. 

His hands grew cold against her skin despite the growing numbness. She felt a desperate urge to pull away, to resist and run. He drew nearer to her - hands like ice, but his breath was warm. She tipped her head, just a fraction. Sympathy and sadness pulled at the best of her. Theirs was an imperfect love, a broken and fractured love. But the tenderness with which he touched her spoke of the remnants of it. 

She hoped he didn’t die alone. Even Fen’harel didn’t deserve his greatest fear.

“Does he know?” he asked, his voice barely audible.

“No. Not yet,” she said, struggling to find the breath to speak. 

She heard him sigh, and lean in closer still. His cheek brushed against hers, lips hovered near the edge of her ear, as he whispered, “I am so sorry,  _ vhenan.  _ For you both."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It only took 23 chapters, but I hope the ridiculously long title of this fic actually makes a little sense now. 
> 
> And... holy shit, WE MADE IT! XD I mean, there's a ton of story left... But, I've been waiting to get to this part since the beginning. 
> 
> (Also, I really wanted to break canon big time, and have Dorian go through the eluvian with her just so he could punch Solas in the face. But I didn't. Please applaud my self-restraint. Or don't.)
> 
> (Also also, I hope I never have to type the word "eluvian" 8000 times again!)


	24. Comment Te Dire Fuck You (Ch. 23 AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But what if Dorian had been able to go through the eluvian...?  
> (An alternate take on Ch. 23)

_ “Ebasit kata. Itwa-ost.”  _

“Oh, fuck…” Dorian muttered. He knew that voice - just as nauseatingly pompous as he remembered it. Watching Ell bound off toward the sound, chasing after him again, he hoped there was righteous fury in her every step. Because if she couldn’t find it within herself,  _ he  _ certainly could. 

The mirror had closed behind them. So this time, it was up to him. This time he wouldn’t fail her - no more sitting on his hands, trying to make nice with Mr. I-Saw-It-In-The-Fade, dutifully keeping his mouth shut. Dorian lamented Bull and Sera’s absence. He felt rather certain that Bull would make short work of their long lost “friend” - which would be unfortunate from an information standpoint. Leliana could make do, though. The thought of Solas sliced in half, Sera laughing as she spit on his corpse… Well, Dorian didn’t think himself the bloodthirsty sort, but it was a surprisingly appealing image. 

He followed after Ellana, up the crumbling stones, abandoning the hope that perhaps the Viddasala was wrong and maybe it some  _ other _ obscenely smug elf she was confronting. But there the qunari stood, seething and furious. And there  _ he _ stood, not even bothering to face them, of course. She reared back, spear in hand, and it seemed for a moment that perhaps she’d do the job for him. But in one frightening instant, the Viddasal was turned to stone. A statue, just as cold and grey and lifeless as the others. Dorian felt a moment’s hesitation. He knew Solas was far more powerful than his little “humble hedge mage” act belied. This sort of power was something else altogether, and it sent a chill through his spine.

But when Solas turned and looked at Ell with that wistful gaze, as if they were still star-crossed lovers, the fear fled Dorian. He was a magister, and a damn good one at that. That conceited fuck had audacity to rip out his dearest companion’s heart, trample over it, act as if it were some great tragedy, disappear... and now, two years later, he thought he could look at her like  _ that. _

_ No _ , Dorian thought.  _ No, that simply will not do. _

“Solas, how absolutely  _ lovely _ to see you again,” Dorian said, watching the surprise spread over the elf’s face with great enjoyment. It seemed this was meant to be a tete a tete to which he was not invited. Dorian thanked whatever fluke or stroke of luck or slice of divine intervention permitted him through the eluvian with her. 

“I see you’ve finally heeded my advice regarding your sartorial choices,” he quipped, reminding himself to tell Vivienne that Solas at last abandoned his unwashed hobo apostate chic. “It’s very…  _ shiny _ . Looks a bit like a grasshopper. But, for a first effort, I must give you top marks.” 

And there it was - the look of irritation that filled Dorian with spiteful glee. It was a rare pleasure in life. He’d promised Ell those years ago that he wouldn’t confront Solas - and he remained true to his word. However,  _ needling _ was a far different thing than confronting. Dorian had seized upon every opportunity to get under Solas’s skin, even in the smallest ways. Each sigh was a tiny victory, a small retaliation for the pain Solas had inflicted upon Ell. 

“I was really quite disappointed that you weren’t able to make it to the  _ wedding _ ,” Dorian continued. “Perhaps the raven couldn’t find its way to whatever… cave or hole in the ground you’ve been wallowing in for the last two years. It was a beautiful ceremony, I can assure you. Our lovely Inquisitor, swathed in white silk and flowers in her hair - she looked… How did Sera put it?  _ “Very elfy.”  _  I’m certain you would have approved, especially considering your recent improvement in personal style. And the dashing Commander - did you know that he  _ smiles _ now? It was a bit disconcerting at first, but I think it rather suits him.” 

“Dorian…” Ellana said, placing her hand on his arm. She nearly convinced him to stop, but it was simply too tempting to keep going. 

“Oh, Ell, don’t be so modest. You certainly weren’t later that night,” he added with an exaggerated wink. “I’ll give it to Cullen, he is a man who knows how to get the job done.” 

_ “Dorian,” _ she scolded. 

“Are you finished?” Solas snapped, words clipped and angry, brow drawn deep into a scowl. 

“Not quite,” Dorian said. 

The sound of his fist making contact with Solas’s jaw was one of the most perfectly beautiful things Dorian had heard in all his life. He could count the times he’d struck someone - in anger, anyways - on one hand. He preferred to put his physicality to better use. 

The look of shock on Solas’s face, the absolutely  _ seething _ rage in his eyes, the little trickle of red from his swollen lip, thr hand rubbing gingerly across his jaw… It was more than worth the bruised knuckles. It was a memory Dorian would treasure for a very long time to come. It was the closest he would come to vengeance, for now.

“I will give you that one, for her sake,” Solas said, tongue gliding across the corner of his mouth. 

“How generous,” Dorian replied. “Now, I have a feeling the two of you have a few things to discuss. I will be waiting right over there, pretending not to listen. Oh, and Solas - if you lay so much as one spindly finger on her, I will put the end of my staff through your throat.” 

He felt certain that Solas would have something more to say to that, but he was scarcely able to open his mouth before Ellana doubled over in pain. Green and glowing light crackled across her hand and arm - it was growing worse, and Dorian wondered if he had pissed off the one person who might be able to help. 

Solas’s eyes flashed, a pale glow for the briefest second, and the Anchor was calmed. 

“What was  _ that?” _ Dorian said breathlessly. Yes, it was strange - the eyes, the powerful, unknown magic. But how was  _ Solas _ suddenly able to control the anchor?

“He’s not an agent of Fen’harel. He  _ is _ Fen’harel. Solas is the Dread Wolf,” Ellana replied. 

Dorian was rarely stunned to the point of silence. And this instance did not prove an exception as he burst into hysterical laughter. They both stared at him in confused silence, as he laughed himself to the point of tears at how wonderfully obvious it now seemed. Solas, who so loved to act the wise and learned sage, was in actuality Fen’harel - the elven trickster god. Or whatever sort of likeness to a “god” he was playing at. 

His amusement wound down quickly, and with one last sigh and a swipe at the tears in his eyes, Dorian replied, “Of course you are…”

Shaking his head back and forth he turned away from Solas and Ellana, content to let her have her moment with him. She was owed something of the truth, something to help her make sense of the mess Solas had created. Dorian hoped it would allow her to finally have some closure on that chapter in her life, so she could move forward into the new one unfettered. 

He’d only moved a few feet away, when he turned back and looked over his shoulder, fixing Solas with an icy glare, “Remember -  _ one  _ finger.” 

 

-

 

When the end came, it was Dorian who held her in his lap on the ground. His hand stroked her hair, as Solas ripped the strip of fabric from his tunic. An overly dramatic gesture - and he would know - but if that was what it took to get this bloody mark off of his friend, Dorian could endure it.

Her breathing grew quick, and he could feel her heart racing against the hand he laid gently over her chest. 

“Shit,” Dorian mumbled, and wondered if this was another time to bite his tongue, or to voice his concern. She was scared before, and scared now - he was hesitant to add to that at this moment. But if something happened… 

“She will be fine,” Solas said evenly.

“You don’t-” 

“I do,” Solas replied, eyes fixed upon Dorian’s, a hint of regret in his voice. 

Dorian stared back for a moment, trying to puzzle out what he saw there. He saw a man determined to keep his mask in place, and the walls of his keep tightly shut. But in between the little cracks, he could see that it stung. And Dorian smiled.

“Does it bother you?” he asked, false innocence dripping from his words. Cold silence was the only reply. But Dorian pressed on. 

“What did you think, that you would tear the world asunder, and she’d die sad and lonely and pining over you?” he said.

“I would want no such thing,” Solas replied somberly.

Dorian smirked, “But, of course you would. And now, if you do succeed, you shall have the satisfaction of knowing that her last moments in this world are to be filled with  _ joy. _ That would almost make the entire “world-being-destroyed” part worth it. Knowing how fucking  _ bitter _ that would make you at the end.”

Solas gave no reply, but Dorian noted that he tugged on the strip of linen a bit more roughly when he knotted it that time. His own satisfaction was complete, safe in the knowledge that he’d well and truly gotten under the bastard's skin. 

The last vestige of Solas would be removed from her, and she would be free. Dorian, however, felt content that he had left a mark of his own upon Fen’harel. 

 


	25. Your Love Will Be Safe With Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Please note the updated tags)

She was pale and still, positioned with care in a small patch of grass. Blood pooled in the dirt beneath her missing limb; the dry, metallic scent filled the air.

Dorian summoned flames and lightning and every element he could conjure, even though the mirror was dark and Solas was gone. He cast until the glass shattered, the gilded frame was black and charred, and every ounce of magic had been sapped from his body.

Sera - who laughed and mocked and took so little seriously - sat beside her and wept.

"What'd he do to you?" she sobbed, as she stroked Ellana's cheek and stained it with her own tears. She would deny it when asked later, but in that moment, Sera was very afraid. Her friend was fragile. Her friend was broken. Her friend, _singular_. Sera didn't keep spares, and Ellana had more to lose than any of them did. The Maker was supposed to look out for her sort.

Bull knelt down and pressed two fingers gently against the side of her throat. Relief washed over him as he the felt the comforting thrum of Ellana's heartbeat.

Attachment had made him Tal-Vashoth, but a lifetime of training wasn't easily abandoned. He assessed the scene calmly, clinically. Her arm was gone; nothing could be done about it. And perhaps it was for the best - no matter how hard she tried to hide it, they all knew it was getting worse. The one person who could have helped was the one who had, presumably, just taken it off.

A bloodied strip of fabric, knotted tightly above her elbow, told him that Solas had made an effort to cause as little harm as possible. And then he'd laid her down, he'd been gentle. Sentimental. A weakness that could be exploited later. The mirror was dark for a long time, and maybe if Dorian hadn't started poking at it again, Solas could've made a clean job of it.

"Dorian, give me your cowl," Bull commanded.

But Dorian stood rooted to the spot. _Failure. Disappointment. Shame._ The refrain of his life's song. They would never forgive him. He would never forgive himself.

 _"Dorian!"_ Bull shouted. "Cowl. Now."

"Fucking void…" Sera stood up, swiping at her cheeks. She pulled her small dagger from its sheath and slipped it under the fabric gathered around Dorian's neck, slicing through it in one swift motion.

"Need something to tie it with…" she mumbled. Turning in circles, her eyes darted back and forth. She pulled the bow from her back with an irritated huff of breath, cutting off its string then tossing it aside unceremoniously.

"Here," she said, thrusting the items into Bull's chest. _"Fix_ her."

Iron Bull gently wrapped the deep blue silk over what remained of her left arm, tying it into place with the stiff strand of waxed hemp. He bent lower, slipping his hand under her neck, carefully lifting her from the ground.

"No, I'll carry her," Dorian said, his voice thick.

Bull didn't argue. He held her aloft, as Dorian stood close beside him and slid an arm into place beside his own. Bull placed a steadying hand lightly against Dorian's back as he cradled Ellana in his arms.

She whimpered as he tilted head her to rest against Dorian's shoulder, and the sound, the proof of life, made him both laugh and cry. He pressed his lips against her forehead, mumbling "Thank the Maker…" He couldn't remember the last time he'd thanked the Maker for a damn thing.

A glint of light in the dirt caught Sera's eye - a worn silver coin, smeared with blood. She tucked it into her pocket, protecting it like she was supposed to have protected her.

They traced back through the maze of eluvians, Bull leading the charge with his greatsword at the ready. Sera lingered behind and kept watch over Dorian's slow progress. At each mirror Bull waited, guarding the way as Dorian hefted Ellana up onto his shoulder as gently as possible. He extended his hand, helping them through first. They would all go through together. No one would be left behind this time.

When they reached the last one, Sera turned back and spat on the ground. Both a curse and a promise - she would be back. She would find him. She would start with his arm and end with his eyes.

 

 

Inquisition soldiers flanked the mirror on the other side. Six sentries, their eyes wide with shock, were startled when the mage pushed through first. He was carrying the Inquisitor, and she wasn't moving. They all knew they should do something. But they also heard the Commander's orders echoing in their ears - if they so much as stepped a toe away from their post, he would make Andraste burning on the pyre seem like a picnic. Dorian stood in the middle of the cramped room, holding her in his arms, listening to the slow drip of blood onto slate.

When Bull came through seconds later, he pointed at two of the guards.

 _"You_ , go find a healer, a Sister, someone with a bottle of whiskey and a fucking sewing needle," he barked. _"Go."_

 _"You_ , _"_ he said to the man beside the first, "Get the Commander. _Now."_

When the soldier hesitantly opened his mouth to reply, Bull charged across the room in two swift steps. He placed his hand on the man's shoulder, thumb squeezing into his collarbone, their faces inches apart.

"I don't care where he is. I don't care what he is doing," Bull said. _"Find. Him. Now."_

The soldier decided that being burned at the stake _later_ was preferable to being ripped in two by angry Qunari _now._

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Cullen was woken by the rustle of the Sister's robes.

They'd all hovered around her at first - tears and grim faces and mumbled words. Encouragement from Varric. Empathy from Cassandra. An apology from Dorian. He heard very little of it. All he could see when he looked at her was hope slipping through his fingers. Finally, they'd left him in peace to sit on the uncomfortable wooden chair, and hold vigil.

She was here. She was safe. She was not whole.

He was numb.

The young woman's sleeves were tied back, her red pinafore billowing out in front as she wrapped long strips of clean, white gauze around Ellana's arm. The legs of the chair creaked as Cullen stretched the stiffness from his back. He'd been sitting for hours. He'd be there for hours more, until she woke and he could breathe again.

The Sister was startled by the noise, her eyes wide as she turned back around.

"Oh, you are awake," she said. Gentle hands, and a shy smile.

He nodded, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. She returned to her work, pressing the back of her hand to Ellana's forehead then to her cheeks. Two fingers touched lightly to her throat, then to the inside of her wrist - the right one, the only one that remained. The Sister stood and smoothed her hands down the front of her smock, satisfied with the patient's progress.

"When will she wake?" Cullen asked. He'd spoken barely two words since the guards had barged into the meeting room yesterday. Only after everyone had gone, in the small hours of the night, had he stood from the chair. He moved to the narrow space between the wall and her bed, wedged himself into the gap so he could kneel and hold her hand. Only then did he weep, and silently pray.

He wondered if the Maker grew tired of hearing his prayers for her safety. Cullen thought the Maker could do a damn sight better at _keeping_ her safe, if he didn't want to listen.

"It is best if she rests for now," the Sister replied in a thick Orlesian accent. "She would be in much pain, so we have given her a sleeping draught. The healers, they will come again soon, and then the pain will be much less."

"Can't you just give her something for the pain now?" Cullen asked. He'd swallowed down enough of the foul tasting elixirs in his lifetime. Broken bones and torn flesh made bearable by whatever ungodly combination of ingredients they put in those vials. Certainly the Chantry wasn't going to be stingy with the Inquisitor, the _Herald_ , of all people.

"Ah…" she said, pausing as she chose her words carefully. "Mother Giselle, she would prefer to be cautious. The potions for pain, in her condition, there can be… _problèmes_. So, you see, it is best if she sleeps."

A potion for pain, a potion for sleep… Cullen recalled the night he'd gotten inexcusably drunk with the Chargers. Mug after mug, glass after glass. Sharing a bottle with Krem on the battlements - something Orlesian that neither of them could pronounce but tasted vaguely like blackcurrant and armor polish. Everything had been fine when he was sitting down. But when he stood up, it all shifted sideways.

The Sister smiled uncomfortably - he was staring, Cullen realized with embarrassment.

The young woman took a steadying breath, and placed her hand on his shoulder. Pale, slender fingers that had not seen hard labor - the third or fourth daughter of a well-off family. The devout child who found life in the Chantry preferable to marrying the second son of a lesser noble.

"Do not worry," she said, her smile genuine this time. "They will both be fine."

It took a moment for everything to slide into place, and understanding to dawn on Cullen. When he was drunk, the world had merely tilted. Now, it had turned completely upside down.

The Sister excused herself from the room. When the door clicked shut behind her, Cullen did not move for quite some time.

Once he was capable of forming coherent thought, the first was, _I am an idiot._ That word alone did not seem sufficient. _Stupid. Selfish. Incautious. Unobservant. Clueless. Careless._ All of those, and still more he had yet to think of.

After he had finished chiding himself, the magnitude of the situation hit him.

Was it a problem? His instinct decisively said ' _No_.' But, if she had known, and not told him, perhaps she saw it as one. How long had she known? Wasn't it the sort of thing that women _just knew?_ Cullen scratched at the back of his head anxiously, and it dawned on him that, other than hazy memories of his mother with Rosalie, he was surprisingly ignorant of the way such things worked.

How it came to be in the first place, that he understood perfectly well. He thought they were careful - at first. Most of the time. Or he assumed _she_ was, when he wasn't. It occurred to him how incredibly unfair that was - letting the burden fall to her, as it always fell to women. Then they were left with the vague hope that the man would "do the right thing" if impulse gave way to consequence. And sometimes they did - this was how he had acquired both a sister-in-law and a nephew.

His heart sank when he thought that this might be why Ellana had married him. He didn't feel blame or bitterness, far from it. He only felt sad that recklessness might have pushed her into something she didn't want. He would have understood. He wouldn't have pressed her. Cullen had followed her lead up to that point, and had few gifts at his disposal. Poetry and pretty words, extravagances and grand gestures - she deserved all of that and more. When it came down to it, though, asking her to marry him had been the only way he could think to express the depth of his devotion to her.

If she had said no, he would have been broken, and his heart would have bled. But he would have accepted her decision. The last thing he wished was to keep her caged.

The door creaked open. Dorian had exchanged his armor for simpler robes - ones that weren't stained with her blood. His eyes were bleary and his feet dragged against the floor beneath him.

He pulled up a chair beside Cullen. They sat together quietly for quite a while. A silent understanding passed between them - a former Templar and a Tevinter magister. Two men who had more in common than either would have guessed. A tentative camaraderie formed over a chessboard. They were bound together through her. Cullen knew Dorian loved her just as deeply as he did. He knew that Dorian wouldn't have let Solas lay so much as a finger on her, had he been able to stop it.

His apology had been unnecessary. He had kept her safe. Blood could would be washed away, bruises would fade, and wounds - even her wounds - would heal. He had carried her in his arms and he had _brought her back_ , and for that Cullen was grateful beyond measure.

"What am I going to do?" Cullen said, never taking his eyes off of her. "Maker, Dorian… she's-"

He stopped just as he was about to say it. The word had almost slipped out when he saw it, written all over the mage's face. Dorian's eyes darted away, glanced down, looked anywhere but at his own. A little hint of guilt. Maybe his apology hadn't been so unneeded.

"You _knew?"_ Cullen asked, voice barely audible.

"I didn't _know._ Not for sure. I… Well, she was worried. She thought she _might_ be. And yes, she came to see me. I told her to go talk to one of the healers…" Dorian babbled.

"And you didn't think I deserved to be informed?"

"I _told_ her to talk to you," Dorian replied defensively. "She was _scared_. It wasn't exactly planned, and the Exalted Council's breathing down the Inquisition's neck, while she's trying to deal with a Qunari plot before it all goes to shit again. So, _no_ , Cullen. I'm sorry, but _you_ were not my priority at that moment. She was in a blind fucking panic because you couldn't be bothered to pull out!"

Dorian stopped himself - holding his breath, both fearing and hoping the rising volume of his voice might wake her.

Cullen's shoulders fell, as he folded over into himself. "What do I do?" he said weakly, head resting in his hands.

"Maker, you're asking _me?"_ Dorian rubbed his fingers back and forth across his brow, slowly shaking his head. "Well, she's going to be fine. I asked the Sister already. Though I did have to turn on the 'Evil, Blasphemous Magister' charm when she tried to get little evasive..."

He sighed and awkwardly patted Cullen on the back. "I suppose you'll just have to go on being one of those disgustingly _happy_ couples I've heard about, with a gaggle of rosy-cheeked, curly-haired little replicas of yourselves running around. Perfectly awful, I know, but you'll suffer through," Dorian said.

"I don't need your sarcasm," Cullen spat. "And I don't need you to patronize me."

Dorian looked him over, squinting and scrutinizing. "How long has it been since you've slept?" he asked.

Cullen shook his head, " _No_. "

Dorian shifted in the chair, crossing his arms, uncrossing his legs. The conversation was not going according to plan. He had the advantage over Cullen, having managed a few hours of meager rest.

"You…" Dorian crossed his legs once again, ankle over knee, drumming his fingers against the stiff leather of his boot. "You do realize that you're being ridiculous, yes? I told her to talk to you. Because it is… _good._ It's what people like you do, when you have enough for yourselves and more to spare. You don't cultivate your offspring like Dennet breeds his horses. You don't foist your own ambitions onto the disappointing result. You don't keep up appearances while privately loathing one another."

"Yes, you will have an odd number of hands between you, and a rather startling assortment of skeletons in your closet. But, most of us? We don't get _this_ ," he continued, gesturing between the two of them. "The best we get is to live vicariously through the happy few who do."

He stood up from his seat, carrying it back to the small table in the corner of the room. "So if you could kindly stop spoiling it for us, we would appreciate it. Now, I will ask you again, how long has it been since you've slept?"

Cullen rubbed his hand across his jaw, "Two days… perhaps three." And two more at least since he'd shaved.

"Which probably means it's more like three or four, because you're a terrible liar. Get up," Dorian said, prodding the leg of Cullen's chair with his foot.

"I have to be here when she wakes," Cullen insisted.

"You have to be _functional_ when she wakes. _Get up,_ " Dorian repeated, extending his hand out. Cullen took it. Shaking the feeling back into his legs, he followed Dorian as far as the doorway before turning back. He bent over the bed one last time and placed a kiss above her brow. Her skin was warm, but bore no trace of the familiar scent of cypress, only the pervasive odor of lavender. The Winter Palace was riddled with it - little sachets tucked into every drawer and under every pillow. Erasing the small comfort he'd hoped to find.

He followed Dorian through the maze of hallways and corridors, scarcely aware of his own steps. The curtains were still drawn when he entered his room, _their_ room. Dorian assured him he would wake him if anything changed. He nodded, and shut the door behind him.

The bed was cold and empty. Cullen laid on top of the blankets and longed for the tangle of arms and legs and laughter. Fingers that traced along his scars. The little hum she made when she woke. Soft lips on the back of his neck. _On dhea_ , the words still clumsy on his tongue. The lilt of her voice when she replied, and he could _feel_ her smile each and every time even if he hadn't yet opened his eyes.

He sighed, staring at pattern of nested squares that tiled the ceiling. Dorian was a fool if he thought he could actually fall asleep. But, he was right about one thing.

"I _am_ being ridiculous," Cullen muttered out loud, feeling a little more ridiculous still for talking to himself.

If Cullen was honest, he was right about several things. _All_ of it, in fact. _Dorian Pavus: unapologetic cheat, inveterate gossip, and now, a font of fatherly wisdom._

Ellana could have easily said no. She could have easily washed her hands of him at any point. For Cullen to question why she'd married him, to imply that the woman who had fought and vanquished the Elder One couldn't raise a child on her own - it was nothing short of insulting.

He _was_ ridiculous, and she obviously loved him in spite of it. She had been carrying this burden on her own, on top of the obstacles the Inquisition faced. And most importantly - it _wasn't_ a burden. It was a joy - one that he was spoiling by talking himself in circles.

Commander Cullen Stanton Rutherford decided he would resolve this the way he resolved everything - he would make a plan. Because where there was a plan, there was a path forward. Equating his impending fatherhood with duty rotations, requisition orders and troop movements was probably not what Dorian had in mind. But it was logical and familiar, and it had served him well up to that point.

After that, there was the matter of his family. He'd have to write a letter to his sister. Hopefully Mia's pleasure in gaining a sister-in-law and a niece or nephew would offset her anger at not being invited to his wedding. Cullen felt fairly sure she wouldn't hold a grudge for long, and certainly not against Ellana. Quite the opposite, most likely. There was a fair chance she would be waiting at the gates of Skyhold when they returned.

The last item to tackle would be the easiest - getting _out_ of Orlais as quickly as possible. Cullen felt certain that once his feet were planted firmly on Fereldan soil, everything would seem more clear.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Ellana was woken from near-sleep by a wet nose against her cheek and breath that smelled like damp hay and sausages. She smiled as the mabari's tongue lolled from his mouth and swiped across her face.

Her arm felt like she had rolled over in the middle of the night and fallen asleep lying on top of it, tingling and heavy. She fought the impulse to stretch and wiggle her fingers back to life. But she knew it was gone. The memory was hazy - hands cradled behind her head and the ground was soft. Pain she didn't _want_ to remember. Everything came in fragments after that. Shouts and whispers and vials held to her lips that drowned the pain in sleep.

Pulling her right hand out from under the sheet, and she reached across her body. The movement was awkward, and her arm wasn't quite long enough to reach. Dane inched in closer, carefully avoiding her bandages, until her nails made contact with his fur. He groaned, a low, rumbling sound as his eyes slowly blinked shut.

The room was unfamiliar, and it was the closest thing to simplicity she had encountered in Halamshiral. There was no gilding on the woodwork or magnificent trompe l'oeil scenery painted on the walls. Instead they were a flat, brilliant blue; no mirrors or portraits, only a small shelf and a figure of Andraste. The floors were smooth, grey marble, with a tufted rug placed at her bedside.

This was the wealthy, Orlesian interpretation of "practical," right down to the bed linens - soft but absent the flurry of damask that overwhelmed every other bed she'd seen in the palace.

The eastern wall was lined with tall windows and a door leading out to a small balcony. Through the squares of glass, she could see Cullen leaning forward against the wrought-iron balustrade, staring into the rose garden below. The set of his shoulders, the way his head hung forward… Ellana sighed.

The sky was clear and bright and blue - it didn't _look_ like the world was going to end again. There were no glowing lights or ominous clouds. There was only the sun, shining down on a very tired man that she needed to tell the truth.

_Thumb tapping across her fingers. Counting. Again._

_She made the tea from bark and bitter roots, but couldn't bring herself to drink it._

_She closed her eyes and prayed to Mythal, prayed for the All-Mother to find some shred of mercy and understanding. A prayer repeated so many times before, devoid of faith then. But she had worn her marks. That had to count. Someone else would beg for this - Mythal could bestow her favor there instead._

_She closed her eyes again, pouring with tears, and prayed to Andraste. She didn't know the words, but desperation gave her hope that perhaps the Prophet would find pity where Mythal could not. How much had she already given in her name? Surely it was enough, and she wouldn't ask this of her, too._

It was no way to begin a life together, keeping things from him. But she had tried to keep it from herself just as much. Like a letter sitting on the desk unopened, Ellana thought if she ignored it, denied it, that the words written inside might change.

Dorian tried to make her talk to one of the healers. He was surprised and flustered and no more sure than she was. She had been eager to adopt his skepticism. And in the flurry of events, it had been easy enough to push it aside, push it off to another time. A better time when she could stop and think and maybe feel less afraid.

She _liked_ children - they were honest in ways that adults inevitably forgot to be. They looked at her with a mixture of awe and confusion, but their curiosity always overcame both.

Children were refreshingly honest, and despite the scolding of mothers and fathers, aunts and uncles, their questions were very direct - "Does it hurt?" "How did you get it?" "Are you really going to save us all?" And at times, they were amusingly random - "Do you like red apples or green ones?" "Can I ride your horse?" And her favorite yet "Was your hair straight before? Did that mark on your hand make it go all curly?"

Cullen was outwardly less indulgent of the children of Skyhold's curiosity. He seemed just as intimidated by them as they were of him, if not more so. They sensed his unease, and gravitated toward her warmth. But he was tremendously patient with those who were brave enough to approach the stern Commander.

Years before, he'd spent the better part of several weeks instructing the kitchen maid's daughter on proper sword and shield technique. The same quiet encouragement that he doled out in small measures to Inquisition recruits was given far more lavishly to the determined young girl. He'd looked so disappointed when her mother finally called her away.

Between her laughter and his patience, they'd figure it out. The timing was wrong, but timing had never been their strength anyways. Maybe he would be excited. Maybe she was beginning to feel a little bit excited, too. Their life was full of shadows and spectres, but someone would always try to tear the world apart. She knew that wouldn't change, even after Corypheus was dead. And Solas had proven her correct, taking up the mantle more quickly that she'd hoped.

She didn't know what the future held, but she wasn't about to let him rob her of more joy.

Ellana swiped her hand over Dane's head one last time. "You should probably go get him now," she said, and he barreled across the room, nearly slamming into the door. The scraping squeak of claws on glass drew Cullen's attention, and soon they were both rushing toward her bedside.

His eyes asked a thousand questions, but "You're awake" was all Cullen managed to sputter out before leaning forward to place a soft kiss on her forehead.

"How are you feeling? Are you in any pain? Mother Giselle said to call for them as soon as you were wake, and if there's any-"

She opened her mouth to reply, but her voice was only a croak that dissolved into a coughing fit. Dry throat, dry lips - she wondered how long she was asleep.

"Let me get you some water," Cullen said, eager to _do_ something other than watch and wait.

Ellana could see the tremble in his hand as he poured. They'd been steady for so long, she'd almost forgotten how they shook before. Rattling porcelain, tea spilling over the edge of his cup. Cullen would protest that he was fine, and she would fix him with a disapproving stare. She needed him more than the lyrium did.

Cullen held the glass to her lips, tilting it back slowly. She gulped it down, desperate to wash the cotton wool taste from her mouth.

"How did you get him in here?" she asked. "I know Mother Giselle can't kick you out this time, but I didn't think she'd make an exception for Dane."

"I didn't really give them a choice," he said. "But I may have stretched the truth a bit and said he was _your_ mabari."

She grinned. "Well, he _does_ like me better..."

A soft _woof_ of agreement, and she rewarded him with a vigorous scratch right behind his left ear. That spot had cemented her position as favorite.

"How long was I... asleep?"

"You returned three days ago," Cullen said, his voice low, fingers rubbing anxiously at the back of his neck. "You were moved into one of the lesser used wings of the palace, for privacy… and it's a more easily defensible position. Fewer entrances and exits, and the upper floors are more difficult to access from the outside."

"Unless you can climb a trellis," she quipped, trying for humor but Cullen's expression made it apparent the joke fell flat.

"The healers have been in several times. They said you needed rest, and they didn't want you to be in pain..." He seemed hesitant to say more. His eyes darted down to her arm and quickly back to her own, like a child scolded for staring too long.

Ellana thought that maybe this was her opening. At least it would change the subject. 

"I need to tell you something." _Everything._

He nodded.

'Inscrutable' was never word she thought would describe Cullen. Varric took full advantage of this when they played Wicked Grace. "A multitude of tells, Curly," and he took great joy in enumerating them. But for the life of her, Ellana couldn't tell what Cullen was thinking at that moment.

"Can you help me sit up?" she asked.

His hands were steady, lifting her as the room spun and her head swam. "Go slowly," he said. Cullen pushed the pillows into place behind her, tugged and smoothed the blankets across her lap.

The neck of her shift had come untied. White linen, embroidered with tiny blue fleur-de-lis. The left sleeve was folded up and pinned above her bandages. A pale pink slash of flesh, a fresh scar, peeked out along the edge of her bare chest. Two ribbons hung limply at either side.

She grasped them in her hand, fingers fumbling as she tried to tie them together. If she held one with three fingers, then she could grasp the other with her thumb and forefinger. Her left arm moved unconsciously as tried to puzzle out what used to be a simple task with her right.

She gathered the end of the strand carefully, trying to push it through the loop of the other. Missing once, and twice again. Cullen watched quietly as she tried a third time. He watched as it slipped from her fingers and dangled in front of her. He watched as she broke, hand falling into her lap and she collapsed forward in tears.

"I can't even do _this,"_ she tugged angrily on ribbons again.

"No, not yet. But I can," he replied, tying them into a neat a bow before he placed a his hand over the fabric at her breast. "I will tie your laces, and fasten your buttons… _Anything._ Anything you ask of me, and everything that you can't."

He bunched the sleeve of his shirt in his palm, and wiped the tears from her cheeks.

"Everything will be fine."

 _"No,"_ she choked between sobs. "I have to _tell_ you-"

"I know."

"Just let me finish!" she shouted, breathless because this was not how it was supposed to happen.

 _"I know,"_ Cullen said, shifting from the chair to sit beside her, the edge of the mattress dipping down under his weight. "One of the Sister's told me, two days ago. And everything will be fine." He punctuated every word of the sentence with a small kiss to her lips.

She sniffled, swiping her hand over her face. "You don't know that."

"I do. Because every day before I loved you, I could see no further than the next. But then I saw days, weeks, months… _years_ stretched out before me. And you were with me in every one of them. And that is what I see now. Something new and wonderful, stretched out in front of me, in front of _us._ "

"How does a farmer's son from Honnleath become the Commander of the Inquisition? The husband of the Inquisitor? The father of her child?" he said, his voice grown soft and reverent. "I have long since stopped trying to make sense of it, and simply thank the Maker for my unbelievably good fortune. By all rights, I should have fallen apart long ago, well on my way to lyrium madness and oblivion."

Ellana shook her head, "No, don't say that…"

"It's true. You saw me. You've seen others… I tried to hide it. _Badly._ I nearly threw that damn box at your head. And what did you do?"

She smiled, "I brought you tea."

"You brought me _tea_ ," he repeated, his smile matching her own. "And now here I sit, at the bedside of my beautiful and capable wife, who has saved the whole of Thedas yet again. All with the aid of elfroot and mint."

He raised her fingers to his lips, lightly kissing the top of each. A familiar gesture, shortened by half now, but one that never failed to bring a tightness to her chest.

"You really shouldn't tease a pregnant woman," she replied, saying the word with hesitation. But his smile broadened when she did.

Ellana leaned her head against his shoulder, his lips almost touching her ear when he whispered, "I wish you'd told me before."

"You would have tried to stop me."

 _"Yes,"_ he said, sweeping her hair to the side to kiss the side of her neck. "I would have tried. And I would have failed, and loved you no less for it."

She pulled Cullen into the single bed with her, laughing as he contorted most of himself around her, his right leg hanging over the side entirely. He insisted he was perfectly comfortable, despite the evidence to the contrary.

He smelled like shaving soap and oakmoss, and she hummed with approval. She would miss being able to trace her hands along both sides of his jaw at once. But Cullen turned his head into her palm as she stroked one side, and and into the back of her hand as she brushed against the other. He leaned back against the headboard, and Ellana nestled in under his arm.

She heard his breath gradually slow, and her own eyes began to droop. She drifted somewhere in the space between waking and sleeping for a moment, when she felt his hand slide under her shift.

Ellana tilted her head back to look up at him. His eyes were closed, but his mouth turned up at the corner.

"You can't feel anything yet, you know," she said.

"Yes, I know."

"But, you're going to keep doing this anyways, aren't you?" she asked.

"Yes, I am." Cullen replied.

She sighed, and nudged him with her elbow. He didn't budge. And she didn't mind. Her life had been in flux for far too many weeks, highs and lows with the constant noise of secrets kept in the background. Things had not resolved so much as they had coalesced, then come to a halt. She felt unburdened for the first time in a very long while.

Pieces were missing, but many more had been added in their place. The days and weeks and months and years that Cullen spoke of were beginning to shift into focus for her as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there. :) It's been a little while...  
> I just wanted to say thank you for the comments on the last chapter, and to apologize for not replying. I read each and every one. Had a nice little weep after more than a few of them. <3 They were all incredibly kind. I felt a little awkward about replying after so long. So, I'll just say a few things here...  
> -I do have a tumblr! restinginaraze.tumblr.com I have been posting some 100 word drabbles, most of which are "canon" to this fic (a few tiny spoilers, nothing major). And I'm always open to asks and whatnot. You may receive a reply in moodboard form. ;)  
> -My little break had absolutely nothing to do with the fic or any comments, etc.. So sorry if I gave that impression, but it was 100% stuff in my personal life.  
> -Last but not least, for those who enjoyed the AU chapter... THERE IS ART! And it is glorious.  
> https://kimpossibility.tumblr.com/post/179361301607/yuhimebarbara-punchline-patreon-reward-for  
> (Thank you again, kimpossible! <3)
> 
> Whew, okay, tl;dr - I'm here. Hoping to update regularly (weekly, fingers crossed). So much fluff we're all gonna need a trip to the dentist.


	26. More Than When We Started

Ellana spent another three days under the watchful eye of Mother Giselle, feeling more like she was being kept under lock and key. Healers visited several times a day, smoothing bone, slowly knitting together muscle and skin, until finally the layers of bandages were no longer necessary. 

A cot was set up in the corner of the room for Cullen. He sat beside her when they came - quietly observing each time the Sisters unwound the strips of gauze and the mages placed their hands upon her. Ellana looked away - stared at the wall, traced the pattern of fine cracks in the blue paint, eager to see anything but the remainder of her arm or the pained look on Cullen's face. 

Despite his unfailing patience, she tried to conceal the frustration she felt at needing help with with the smallest things. “It won’t be like this forever,” he assured her. “It will just take time, that is all.” Ellana knew he was right, but that made it feel no less insulting to fumble through simple tasks.

It was easier when he slipped a robe over her shoulders, and they stood together on the small balcony. She pretended not to see the guards patrolling back and forth along the walls beneath them. He pretended not to watch her every movement. But she would catch him staring and smiling, and quickly find herself smiling, too. With the pain somewhat subsided, she was able to forget for a little while. 

Visitors were kept to a minimum, which gave Ellana ample time to tell Cullen exactly what had happened in the Elven ruins. He gave little in the way of response - an occasional nod, or a clipped “I see.” She saw the muscles in his jaw tighten, but was determined to give him every detail of the truth, knowing he would want nothing less. When she finished, her memory ending where Dorian’s memory began, she expected him to say  _ something _ . Instead he stared at his hands.

“I'm sorry,” she said.

Cullen nodded. He was collecting his thoughts, preferring a measured response to an outburst. Ellana understood his hurt - he was entitled to feel it. Her fear did not preclude his pain, but old habits died hard. It was instinct, to try to keep his emotions in check. His pain, his longing, his disappointment - they always escaped too easily, betraying him when they flashed across his face. 

“It isn’t that I’m angry, as I said before… But when I think that I could have lost… When I wonder whether Solas could have changed his mind, could have decided it would all be simpler and easier if you weren't dogging his steps… I know he loved you once. And perhaps he does still. But if he is willing to wipe away an entire world, he could easily have rationalized erasing you as well, and seen it as a kindness.”

“It is a thought I cannot bear,” he said, falling silent again. 

“I never meant to-”

“I know,” Cullen replied, his voice gentle, eyes meeting hers. “I  _ know, _ and you don't need to explain or apologize. Just understand why it is hard for me to hear.”

“I do,” she said, wiping tears from her eyes.  _ Again. _ Emotion overwhelming her, then fading again as quickly as it came. 

But Cullen had said all he needed to, and moved the conversation onto more pleasant thoughts - returning to the lake again, catching minnows, large hands clasped around tiny ones. Catching fireflies, eyes full of wonder, two pairs of legs sprawled around him…

“We’ll need a bigger tent,” he thought out loud.

“You’ll never be cold,” she teased.

Late at night, lying beside him when he pushed his cot up next to her bed, Ellana pondered the uncertainty of their future. Telling the others had to come first, then the rest would depend on the outcome of the Council. Even in the best case scenario, where they were given time to gradually hand responsibility back to Ferelden and Orlais, Cullen believed the process could take a year or more.

Stalking around the familiar halls with a child in tow… admittedly it wasn’t how she’d envisioned things. She imagined something closer to her own childhood, but more stable and stationary. Roaming forests, roaring fires - smaller, humbler than an ancient fortress.  

A feeling of homesickness swelled inside her. It had been too long since she’d written to her clan. The fact that they survived at all had been a stroke of unbelievable luck. Keeper Deshanna's letters came with less frequency, and her gratitude was always couched in the assumption that Ellana would return, eventually. 

A seed of doubt was planted early on. Experiencing life outside her clan for the first time opened Ellana’s eyes to how large the world truly was. Then when Solas told her the truth of her vallaslin and took them from her, it ensured she  _ couldn’t _ go back. If Deshanna had word of the Dalish Inquisitor's bare face, she said nothing of it in her letters. But how could any of them welcome her again, after such an obvious rejection of the People's history and culture?

Everything that had come since then only cemented the fact that she would be forever exiled from her past. Marrying a shem, bearing his child - those were unforgivable offenses. 

Occasionally, the half-blood child of a wayward Dalish was welcomed into a clan. Usually young and idealistic, eager to embrace Dalish custom after an upbringing in an alienage. For the clan, they were new blood, and even if their ears were rounded, at least their children wouldn't bear the shame of their shemlen blood.

What would life be like for her own child? Neither elf, nor human… but they would be able to pass. They might be a little smaller, their cheekbones a little higher. But their ears would never give away the truth of their parentage. 

What would strangers think when they saw them together? A year or two from now, her arms full instead of her belly - soft cheeks, unruly curls, eyes the color whiskey or water. Would people think she was their mother or their maid? Worse still, a thought that pulled a sob from deep within Ellana - would her child ever see her as a burden, a shame to be denied? 

She had lived in a bubble for the past four years. Whatever prejudices the residents of Skyhold harbored, they knew better than to voice them out loud. Even when she went out into the world, she wore the mantle of Herald and Inquisitor. Even in a place like Halamshiral, she was an exception. 

What would life be like when she took off that mantle? For all the places she had traveled, her world was still very, very narrow. She had lived in isolation, in many ways - within the comfort of her clan, constantly reminded of her duty to the People, of their ancient roots, their  _ pride.  _ And then with the Inquisition - she was set above, the fact that she was an elf was conveniently ignored because of the mark on her hand.

She felt Cullen stir next to her. His eyes were still closed, but he patted at the empty space beside him until his hand found her leg. He didn't open his eyes or say a word, just wrapped his fingers in her nightgown, and pulled. She smiled and shifted back into place beside him, her head resting in the crook of his arm, back pressed flush against his chest. Cullen slid his hand into place around her middle, and mumbled something Ellana couldn't quite understand. Sleepy words of comfort.

She had to believe this would count for something - love. They loved each other. They would love their child. They wouldn't be alone in that.

The arms wrapped around her were honest and constant, unflinching and unwavering. They were the arms she wished to hold her until her very last breath. The heart that beat in his chest, the rhythm she could hear when she pressed her ear to it, was only for her. And hers for him. 

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


“I’m staying, and that’s final.” 

Dorian crossed his arms and leaned back into the chaise, satisfied that he had put an end to the discussion. Ellana, however, was anything but satisfied by his declaration.

“No, you’re not,” she said. “And don’t talk to me like I’m a child. I lost my arm, not my senses…”

He winced at her words. Dorian seemed to be taking the loss worse than she was, as if her stunted limb was a reminder of his own failure. It didn’t matter how many times she told him it wasn’t his fault. He was determined to blame himself, and now he was also determined to glue himself to her side to make amends. 

“Dorian, it’s your father’s funeral. You  _ should  _ go. You should say goodbye.” 

“I said goodbye a long time ago,” he mumbled. “I’m not abandoning you again.” 

Ellana sighed. “Listen to me,” she said, her hand grasping his chin and pulling his eyes to meet her own. “No,  _ listen. _ You didn’t abandon me before. You are not abandoning me now. Your father is dead, and you owe it to yourself to find some closure. Not for him, or for anyone else. Just for you.”

“But…”

_ “No,”  _ she said, poking him squarely in his chest. “This works both ways, you know. You care for me, and I get to care for you as well. So if you really  _ don’t _ want to go, I’ll understand. No one should tell you how to grieve, least of all me. But going doesn’t mean you have to forgive him, or forget the pain he caused.”

He rolled his shoulders, his discomfort visible. For all he revelled in discussing others, he was most comfortable talking about himself only with exaggerated bravado. Ellana accused him of being more Orlesian than Tevene, considering how well he wore his mask. 

“You know, I’m tired of you looking at me like I’m some sort of sad experiment gone wrong,” she grumbled.

“I’m not looking at you like  _ that,”  _ Dorian insisted. “I’m looking at you like- well, I suppose it is a  _ bit _ like that. When you told me about your… _ condition _ , I promised myself that I would keep you safe and in one piece. And you are distinctly  _ not _ in one piece.” 

Ellana looked herself over slowly, spreading her arms and legs out to exaggerate her point. “I’m afraid I must disagree, Dorian. I appear to be in precisely  _ one _ piece.”

He rolled his eyes, “You know what I-”

_ “Yes,  _ I know what you mean,” she replied testily. “And for all I know, Solas took the damn thing with him and put it up on a shelf somewhere. Maybe he’ll take it out for parties and bore all of his ancient Elvhen friends with an insufferably long story about “that time I hacked off the Inquisitor’s arm.” But it’s gone. It’s done. It was not your fault, and I am tired of arguing with you. And I’m also really,  _ really _ hungry.”

Dorian pointed to the tray on the table beside them. Ellana stared at him blankly for a moment, then opened her mouth. 

“Really?” he sighed, as she opened wider. He plucked a single fondant-covered square in his fingers and obediently placed it between her lips. 

_ “Fank oo,”  _ she mumbled around the mouthful. 

“You’re ridiculous,” Dorian said. 

“Exactly. And you love it,” Ellana grinned. “Do you really want to sit around feeding me all day? Because that’s what I’ll make you do if you stay.”

“Isn’t that Cullen’s job?” 

“No,” Ellana said, taking a deep breath before she continued. “Cullen’s job is to feed me cake, then ask me if I want something  _ else _ to eat, or something to drink, or another pillow, or another blanket… I honestly think Mother Giselle put something in his tea last night just so he would go to sleep and stop pestering her.”

“Well, you are giving birth to the scion of the Andrastian faith,” Dorian said, sinking to his knees beside the chaise in dramatic fashion. Ellana flopped the back of her hand over her eyes and groaned. ”You know, I thought the Southern Chantry would be far more uptight about fornication.” 

“Apparently touching things you’re not supposed to is all it takes to get into Andraste’s good graces. The elven gods are much more fickle,” she said, her smirk quickly faltering as she realized the unfortunate truth in those words. 

“I’m sorry,” Dorian said, placing his hand over hers. 

“Don’t apologize for him. He’s not really a god anyways. None of them are, I suppose. Not that I ever really believed. At least not since I was little. But what child doesn't like stories of gods who are fierce and clever and look after their People?” she shrugged. 

“Fierce, clever, looks after their friends…” Dorian rubbed at his chin. “So what you are telling me is, I am a god.”

She couldn’t stifle her laughter quickly enough, “That sort of blasphemy is why my Keeper always warned us away from you shems.” 

“And that was where she made her mistake - we always want the things we’re not supposed to have.” 

Ellana fixed him with a very pointed stare, which Dorian chose to ignore entirely.

“So… are we going to talk about-”

“I’d really prefer we didn’t,” Dorian snapped. He stole a thimble-size tart from the tray, nibbling on the edge before tossing it back down. “Who puts  _ fennel seed _ in pastry?” he mumbled with disgust.

_ Time to change the subject _ , Ellana thought. She’d pushed him far enough talking about his father - if he didn’t want to discuss Bull, then it was best left alone for now. 

Obviously Dorian agreed. “I thought the little chat earlier went well,” he said, continuing on as if nothing had been mentioned. “I expected it to be a bit awkward, but I suppose  _ ‘Surprise! Our former companion is actually an immortal elf-god bent on world destruction’ _ isn’t really all that out of place for our merry little band.” 

Ellana shrugged, “It could have been worse…”

In truth, their reactions were varied, but comfortingly predictable.

Cullen stood with his arms crossed, mouth set in a hard line. Cassandra’s expression was remarkably similar. Leliana was as indecipherable as ever. Both Josephine and Varric appeared to be making mental checklists of old friends to contact and favors to call in. 

Judging from the mumbled “Teeth first,  _ then _ testicles,” Sera was making a very different kind of list. Most likely the order in which she would remove various parts of Solas’s body. Dorian looked eager to help Sera in her task. And Bull was more concerned with Dorian’s expression than forming one of his own. 

The only surprise came from Vivienne - a sound that was far too dignified to be called a snort or a snicker. But a burst of derisive laughter from the Iron Lady startled everyone in the room. 

“Forgive me Inquisitor, but I fail to see the urgency in the situation,” she drawled. “Should we honestly be concerned by the idle threats of someone who thought giving an ancient, powerful artifact to  _ Corypheus _ a sensible course of action? It would seem to me that all we need do is wait for Solas to make yet another mistake.” 

Ellana couldn't deny there was a satisfying kernel of truth in her statement - he  _ did _ make poor decisions. Dismissing Solas as simply another nuisance, a distraction not yet worthy of their attention, would be all too easy. But he was no longer the mage Vivienne thought she knew. 

“At least we all had the decency to act shocked when you told everyone about the baby,” Dorian said, pulling her from her thoughts.

Ellana scoffed, “Yes, well, I’ll be amazed if the whole of Halamshiral doesn’t already know.  _ You _ were the first one I told, after all.” 

“I didn’t tell  _ anyone!” _ he insisted, looking genuinely offended. “I  _ do _ keep secrets remarkably well when they’re the sort that actually need to be kept. Or when they’re so boring that no one else would care.” 

She smiled, and scooted in closer beside him. Dorian wrapped his arm around her shoulders and inhaled sharply.

“You’re meeting with the Exalted Council tomorrow morning?” 

“Yes…” 

“And then that’s  _ it… _ ” He puffed the air from his cheeks, exhaling loudly. “It’s a bit hard to believe. This is by far the longest I have stuck with  _ anything,  _ you know. And any _ one _ , come to think of it.”

“You’re not tired of me yet?” she asked, leaning her head into his shoulder.

“How could I be? You don’t slow down long enough to  _ get _ bored of you. I just wish I could take you along with me. We would be the talk of Tevinter - my sparkling wit and your… well, your tits, honestly. Sera isn’t wrong there. The men of the Imperium are as predictable in their tastes as everywhere else in Thedas.” 

“Behave,” Ellana said, laughing as she nudged him with her shoulder.

“Never,” he insisted, resting his head against hers. “If Tevinter wasn’t…  _ Tevinter _ , I could just wait for you to have this baby and then invite you to come to  _ me. _ My feet would be warm, and my poor eyes would never be scarred by another pleated collar…”

“But, you’ll have your sending crystal. You remember, that invaluable magical artifact I gave you as a token of my enduring friendship?” 

She slipped the delicate gold chain from beneath her blouse, wedging her thumb into the edge of the locket to open it.

“Everything is changing,” Ellana said, tilting her head back and sniffing sharply to stop the tears that threatened.

“I am handsome. You are brilliant. Thedas is a raging inferno of greed, bigotry, and low expectations. I’d say very, very little has changed,” Dorian replied. “And… I suppose I love you. Whatever happens, there’s that.” 

She closed the locket and clasped it in her hand, leaning forward to kiss Dorian on the cheek. “I love you, too _.” _

  
  


* * *

  
  


“I will absolutely not miss wearing this,” Ellana said, as Cullen slipped the last brass button through red wool.  

“You will, though,” he replied. “Perhaps not the uniform itself, but what it symbolizes. You  _ should _ miss it, and feel proud of what you accomplished.” 

She had accepted her role with reluctance. In the beginning, everyone around her seemed to know what they were doing, while she felt entirely at sea. The moment she caught up, caught on, the landscape changed again. It wasn’t until she realized that it was confidence, not competence, that the others had in abundance. Once Ellana stopped waiting for the obstacles to appear, and started trusting her instincts, she felt as if she  _ could _ fulfill the duty she’d been given.

Inquisitor Lavellan walked through the halls of the Winter Palace one last time, with her head held high, the writ of Divine Justinia tucked under her arm, Commander Cullen by her side. Where she’d only wanted to shrink away in Haven, it was here that she’d bloomed. Proving to Orlais that the Inquisition was a force to be reckoned with. Proving to herself that she could wear the mask and slip through their world to save her own. Yes, she’d had to grit her teeth, bite back her anger at their condescension. But she had denied them the satisfaction of seeing her fail. 

The bickering had already begun, loud enough to be heard through the heavy wooden doors as she approached. Cullen paused, and placed his hand on her shoulder. 

“Ellana, are you absolutely sure this is what you want? I will support whatever decision you make, of course, it’s just-”

“I’m sure,” she said. 

Holding the heavy tome in her hand one last time, she announced with quiet dignity that the Inquisition had fulfilled its purpose. The time had come for soldiers to sheathe their swords, to go home, to heal and begin again. Handing the writ over to Josephine, who looked both proud and pained, Ellana thanked all those who believed in their purpose long enough to restore some semblance of order to the world. 

“Effective immediately, the Inquisition is disbanded.”  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are, at the end of Trespasser at last! A lot of introspection and dialogue, AGAIN, I know. One more chapter, wrapping a few things up, and then - New places! And new people! Seriously. I promise. 
> 
> Comments and constructive criticism are always welcome and appreciated. I'm over on tumblr, too, if you have a question or grievance to air. ;)


	27. Forward in the Light

_ They mean well. _

Ellana tried to reminder herself of this. In the three weeks since they had left Halamshiral and returned to Skyhold, she had scarcely had a moment truly alone. Not that she was busy - far from it. But she suspected that between Cullen and Josie, they had devised a schedule for servants and healers and runners and a sweet but persistent Chantry sister to “check in” with her. 

Every face was pasted with a knowing smile. Every pair of eyes steadfastly avoided look at her arm or her middle. Not that there was anything to see in either place - her arm was gone, covered by a sleeve pinned into place each morning by Cullen. She tried not to roll her eyes, tried not to snap at him. One morning she finally did become so frustrated by his calmness that she took a pair of shears to one of her favorite blouses, then stormed out to the balcony in tears. 

Her middle was a barely perceptible swell, made all the less noticeable by the loose tunics she preferred. But the lack of visible evidence dissuaded no one from asking after her, daily and repeatedly. Ginger tea was offered by the gallon, and it became more and more difficult to keep her refusals polite. 

The most upsetting part of it all was that she was almost wholly excluded from Inquisition affairs. Meetings were conveniently called on mornings when she slept in. Correspondence was diverted to Leliana or Cullen. They had collectively decided to absorb her workload, without consulting her in the least. Ellana was left feeling completely useless, while they insisted that she needed to rest, to recuperate, that all was well in hand. 

Three long weeks of this passed, before Ellana decided she could take no more. It was the middle of the afternoon, and Sister Marcheline, foisted upon Skyhold by a well-meaning Mother Giselle, had just finished examining her arm again. The skin was still sensitive, barely-healed scar tissue. Magic could speed certain things along, but the tenderness and unpleasant sensations would only fade with time. 

Despite the fact that Ellana was perfectly capable of doing it herself, Sister Marcheline insisted on applying a balm of royal elfroot to her arm every day. This gave her the opening to ask a litany of other questions - Had she eaten? How was she sleeping? Was she feeling any nausea? Pain? Cramping? The same list of questions that Cullen asked her every morning, noon and night. The same list of questions she answered the same damn way - trying to convey that she was genuinely  _ fine. _

That afternoon, though, the Sister’s scrutiny continued, “Are you sure you’re feeling well, Lady Lavellan? You look rather pale today.”

_ Lady Lavellan _ . She’d tried  _ Lady Rutherford _ first, but Ellana had curtly informed her that she was neither a Lady nor was she her husband’s property.

Ellana gritted her teeth, sucking a deep breath in through her nose. “Sister Marcheline, I am feeling perfectly well. As I was yesterday. And the day before that. And the day before that.” 

But Ellana felt sure the Sister hadn’t heard a word she said. Checking her pulse, staring at her eyes, remarking on the circles she perceived underneath them. 

“Have you been--” 

“I have been doing same things that  _ every _ woman since the dawn of creation has done,” Ellana said, pushing up from the bed with a huff. “Now, if you will excuse me, I need to speak with the Commander.”

Sister Marcheline was left open mouthed and sputtering as Ellana descended the stairs and slammed the door behind her, full of righteous fury. Enough was enough, and she could not put up with months of being treated as if she were a fragile and feeble thing. 

She declined the courtesy of even knocking on his door. Six eyes snapped up to stare at her as she barged in and stood in the doorway, face flushed and scowling.

“Commander, may I have a moment of your time?”

The two soldiers stood arrow-straight beside Cullen’s desk, caught in an awkward crossfire, and desperately hoping to be dismissed. 

He calmly handed over a stack of papers to one of the men, “Please tell Lady Montilyet that I will discuss this with her later.” After saluting him, and bowing to Ellana, they left the room practically at a run. 

Seeing Cullen unruffled and sympathetic, Ellana suddenly felt foolish. “I need to speak with you,” she said, closing the door behind her with exaggerated slowness. “I should have knocked. And I’m sorry I didn’t.”

“It’s fine,” Cullen replied, gesturing to the worn leather chaise, blanket still neatly folded across the back. He’d never had the heart to move it out. 

He sat down beside her, and she watched his eyes perform the same visual inspection as he had, Sister Marcheline had, Josephine had, every healer and kitchen maid in Skyhold had for weeks. 

“Can you please  _ stop _ doing that?” 

Cullen’s arm was halfway around her back, and he froze mid-pose. “I… may I ask what it is that I’m doing?”

“ _ Everything. _ And I am doing  _ nothing.  _ I eat. I sleep. I drink enough tea to choke a horse. And I know that you’re all just…” Her fingers clenched into the cracked leather, her lip quivered and she hated that it did. “You’re all just pushing me out.”

He nodded, and pressed his lips to her forehead. “Just a moment, please,” Cullen said, walking across the room again. He opened the small top drawer of his desk, where he kept his personal effects - his journal, a wooden box with letters from his siblings, her own stacked and neatly tied in a parcel with blue ribbon. He pulled out a letter written in an unfamiliar hand, and handed it to Ellana as he sat back down.

“Before you read this, I need to tell you something,” Cullen began. “As difficult as this is for me, I know it is far more difficult for you. And that has become more and more apparent to me over the past weeks.”

He sucked in a deep breath, and continued on, “So I came to a decision. I apologize for not discussing it with you, but I had hoped to have everything in place before I did.” 

“Everything in place for  _ what?” _ Ellana asked.

“I am stepping down, and Captain Rylen will begin taking over my duties as Commander of the Inquisition, for the remainder of its existence. The letter is from my sister, Mia. It is an offer, and all I ask is that you consider it. If you do not find it agreeable, I will take no offense. But I have already spoken with Josephine and Leliana, and while I will need  _ some _ time to familiarize Rylen with the intricacies of my position, they are in agreement and have accepted my resignation.” 

Ellana thought it strange that she was so surprised. With the flurry and bustle that still gripped Skyhold, she had to remind herself at times that the end  _ was _ coming. There had always seemed to be a tacit agreement that they would see this through to the end, though. Cullen had been there since its inception. Guiding sword and shield, crates and camps, he had poured his lifeblood into the Inquisition, and now he would leave it unfinished. 

“Are you sure?” she asked meekly.

“Yes,” Cullen replied, repeating himself again when he saw the whisper of doubt in her eyes.  _ “Yes.  _ Mia’s letter came two weeks ago. I’ve read it through a dozen times. All I could think was,  _ that _ was how I wished to see you - somewhere simple and easy and free from all of this. And I find, that is what I wish for myself, sooner rather than later. Wherever we go, we will decide together.” 

There was knock at the door, and a muffled voice from the other side, “Sir? Lady Montilyet is asking to speak with you again…” 

“One moment,” he shouted, exasperated. Turning back to Ellana, he placed his hand over hers, gently pressing it into the parchment. “Please, just read it, and consider what it says. I am sorry, but I have to go - Josephine is insistent that I begin settling matters with Caer Bronach at once, as it is a substantial point of contention with Ferelden. Handing it back first will go a long way to smoothing things over, and it will ease the way for Rylen to negotiate with Arl Teagan, and… I’m sorry, there are just…” 

Cullen kissed her once, quickly but insistently. His hands framing her cheeks, he paused for a moment to smile. 

“We will talk this evening.  _ And _ I will speak with Josephine about Sister Marcheline.” 

 

* * *

  
  


“What's that? Letter from your  _ other _ husband already? Thought you two had your little secret rings,” Sera said. 

“No, and they're necklaces, not rings…” Ellana replied. “It’s a letter from my  _ husband _ husband's sister.”

Sera leaned over her shoulder, craning her neck low to read the page, “Oooh, is it any good? She mad? Call you a harlot, threaten to cut you for seducing her sweet and pure little Cully Wully?” 

Ellana nudged her shoulder back, pushing Sera off, “No, of course not…”

“Yeah, cause we all know  _ that's _ rubbish,” Sera replied, snickering gleefully. “Sweet and pure my arse.  _ Oh, yes, my Lady Herald… You  _ can _ put that in there!”  _

“Sera!” Ellana shouted, burying her face in her hands. Laughing until tears poured down her cheeks, she applauded Sera’s heartfelt portrayal of strange and vigorous and entirely inaccurate love making. 

“There,” Sera took a bow, and flopped down onto the sofa beside her, once Ellana was breathing normally again. “Much better. You had that face that gives you wrinkles… So are you going to let me read it?”

Ellana handed her the letter, creased and crinkled from opening and folding many times over.  
  


 

_ Dear Cullen, _

_ Maker’s breath, why are Rutherford men so insistent upon putting the cart before the horse? I am quite sure Father gave you the same speech about the birds and bees as the rest of us, so you cannot claim ignorance. _

_ We are all absolutely thrilled by your lack of self-restraint, of course. I read your letter aloud, and Rosalie was sulking from the moment I uttered the word “wedding.” But I must admit, we’re all feeling a little less offended now that we understand the reason for your hasty nuptials.  _

_ Really though, Cullen... She’s the Herald of Andraste! No one was surprised when it happened to Branson. But you? My faithful, fastidious brother, getting the savior of Thedas with child? James said the look on my face was priceless. At least until I told him he could make his own bloody supper that evening. Then the price of his amusement suddenly seemed rather dear... _

_ I am sorry that what should be a joyful time has been beset with struggles. I am relieved that you both (or all three, rather) are safe and well. I cannot help but feel troubled to hear of the Herald’s condition. It pains me to know that one who has done so much, and has been a beacon of hope to all, faces such difficulty. _

_ But, I feel I have devised the perfect solution - you should bring her here. We are all terribly anxious to meet her. And to see you, of course. The farm is quiet and peaceful. She’ll be surrounded by family, and won’t have to be bothered about a single thing. She can rest and heal, and let us all fuss over her. Everything will be perfectly ready for our new niece or nephew. Or both, perhaps? I have heard that elves are more like to have twins. (I hope you’re not drinking while you read this, or I fear the page is rather wet now.) _

_ You’ve barely begun, and already there is so much weighing on the two of you. Again, I am so sorry, Cullen. Please, do let us help. You’ve done your part, and have more important things to think of now. Yes, I can hear you, “More important than the fate of Thedas?” But Thedas will still stand a thousand years from now, and the time we have in this life is short. You and I know this, as does the Herald. All of us, parents taken from us far too soon. All of us, wishing we had treasured the time we were given much more. Please, I beg you, do not waste one second of it. _

  
  


_ I’ve spent the morning rearranging the spare room. Branson has already begun making a crib, and is gone into town now to pester the poor herbalist. I told him that Lyra’s a city elf, but he has it in his head that she’s the only one who can help him get the little halla just right. Rosalie is spending every spare moment stitching away at a quilt. Gavin has asked near a thousand times when he’ll be able to play with his new cousin.  _

_ So, I believe that settles it, yes? Tell me when you’ll be arriving, and everything will be just so. We shall make sure she wants for nothing, while you get things settled and return as soon as possible. She will be in the best hands. Not to besmirch the good people of the Inquisition, but family is family. _

 

_ With much love and many congratulations, _

_ Mia _

  
  


“Ha! I like her,” Sera said, folding the pages together again and tucking them into the front of Ellana's blouse. “Sense of humor must have passed Cullen right over… So, when are we leaving?” 

“What are you talking about?” 

“I'm talking about _you_  getting out of  _ here,”  _ Sera said, walking her fingers across her palm to demonstrate. “They're not going to let you  _ do _ anything. So you're just going to sit 'round here, getting angry and sad and angry again until the little bean's ready to pop.”

Ellana pulled the letter out of the edge of her breast band, tossing it onto the small marble-topped table beside her.

“I can’t just leave now _ ,”  _ she said, kneading her fingertips across her brow. “And  _ bean?  _ Really? Dorian’s bad enough calling it  _ my condition  _ all the time. Besides, don’t you mean  _ pea _ ?” 

Sera’s face twisted into a grimace, “Pea? Nah, peas are green and mushy and disgusting. Beans are nice.”

“But listen,” Sera continued, tucking her legs under her, staring earnestly at Ellana, “this is your  _ out _ . ‘Cause if you stick around much longer, you’ll just get pulled back in. They’re all sweetness now, but once the shock’s worn off, they’ll tug on the strings again. And where you go, he goes. Inquisition or not, as soon as they want you out looking for  _ that fuck _ , Cullen’ll follow right off the cliff.”

“Sera,  _ look _ at me,” Ellana said, her voice slow and laden with exhaustion. “I’m not a mage. I have one arm, a child on the way. I know what I am, and I  _ know _ I can’t fight Solas by myself. I know that Cullen would follow after me, and he wouldn’t stand a chance either.” 

“Then  _ go _ .  _ That fuck _ is going to see you or me or any of us coming from a mile away. What are you going to do, other than sit here? Go off to the farm - make cheese, have babies, ride goats, whatever. You’re Dalish. Your whole life was just supposed to be hunting and stories and prancing around naked in a forest.” 

“So, well - that’s that, right?” Sera declared, pulling Ellana up from the sofa. “I’ve got some Jenny things to take care of in Denerim. I’m coming along for the trip. And I’ll be there in case Big Sister does decide you’re a harlot after all… We’ll pack later. But c’mon, Dagna’s got something for you, and I think you’ll like it.”

 

* * *

 

The Undercroft seemed so much quieter than Ellana remembered it. It was a place made for times of war, rather than times of peace. They were no longer arming a burgeoning Inquisition, but maintaining a dwindling one. Harritt had accepted a position in Kirkwall, generously offered by Varric. It was a self-serving offer, as well - key members of the Inquisition were insured a steady wage, and Varric was given first crack at poaching the best they had to offer. 

A few apprentices had stayed on to sharpen and polish and repair. The bulk of the space was now occupied by Dagna. She had received a number of inquiries, but had so far accepted none. 

“This is still only a prototype,” she said, gesturing toward a bundle of red cloth sat atop her workbench. “And you won’t be able to try it on yet - your skin still isn’t quite healed enough, so I’ll have to do several fittings in the future to get it right. But even then, I have plans to make it  _ much _ better, and I’m waiting to hear back from a few suppliers of rare materials, and--”

“Just  _ show _ her, Dagna,” Sera gently prodded.

Dagna cleared her throat, and unfolded the cloth. It was an intricate assemblage of wood and metal, fashioned in the form of an arm, yet obviously so much more. The exterior of the forearm was instantly recognizable to Ellana - sylvanwood, rare and strong and used to craft the finest bows and staffs amongst the Dalish. It had been polished smooth to show off the beautiful grain, and lacquered to give the wood an almost otherworldly glow. A band of metal was fitted around the center of the forearm. 

The hand was fascinating - almost skeletal in appearance, but composed of an impossible number of joints and screws and rivets. How Dagna had been able to construct something so complex is such a short period of time, Ellana could not even fathom. For all Dagna’s insistence that it was not a final product, it look to her a masterpiece of engineering and ingenuity. 

“The hand still needs work - the mechanisms won’t be so visible once it’s finished. It won’t function anything like a real one, but you should have a basic range of motion. Fine motor skills, like holding a quill or fastening a button, aren’t really possible. But… well… You’ll be able to  _ hold _ things.” 

Ellana swallowed hard, and a deep blush spread across Dagna’s cheeks. It was not simply a masterpiece of craftsmanship, or a demonstration of her skill - it was constructed with care, and purpose. It was made to be strong, and to be gentle. It was made to be the arm Ellana’s child would know - metal and wood rather than flesh and bone. It would grasp, and it would cradle. It was an overwhelmingly thoughtful  _ gift. _

“You’re not supposed to  _ cry _ when someone makes you an indestructible arm with a bunch of magical fiddly bits,” Sera groaned. “Show her the other part, the  _ fun  _ part.” 

Dagna brightened, and pulled another fabric wrapped parcel forward from the back of the workbench. 

“So, the arm has dual functionality. Obviously, to look and behave as a facsimile of a  _ real _ arm, but then…” 

She clasped her hands on either side of the forearm. Twisting gently, the hand detached from the base of the arm, and Dagna unfolded the second parcel to reveal a modified crossbow. 

“I based this off of what I was able to observe of Bianca, whenever Varric wasn’t looking. I couldn’t get a peek at the inner gearing, but I think I was able to replicate the loading mechanism pretty accurately. It’s a lot different than shooting a long bow, so there will be a pretty steep learning curve at first. But once you get the hang of aiming and firing, it should be fairly straight forward.” 

Dagna smiled at her expectantly, while Sera posed the hand into an inappropriate gesture.  

“It is magnificent,” Ellana stumbled over her words. “ _ Thank you _ . Thank you for everything, and for this. I… I don’t know what to say--”

She bent down and embraced an obviously pleased Dagna. 

“Oh, tits, not again...” Sera said, swiping the cloth off the bench and shoving it into Ellana’s hand. “C’mon my love. And you too, Weepy. Let’s go show Bull your new toy, and then you can watch us drink too much, alright?”  
  


 


	28. Open Ears and Open Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #1. Hello!  
> #2. I am a lying liar - there are two chapters before we Meet the Rutherfords, because self-indulgent writing is the best kind of writing  
> #3. But there are three chapters comin' atcha!

“How many?”

Cullen wasn’t sure whether he actually wanted to know. A number made it real. A number meant counting men in the barracks, servants in the kitchen, wondering how many of them were betrayers.

“Six, so far. And I suspect several more,” the Nightingale replied.

 _Damn…_ He’d expected spies within their ranks long ago - he wasn't a fool. But the confirmation had far more disturbing consequences now. It wasn't about upstart Orlesian nobles seeking influence or Antivan merchants trying to disrupt their competitor’s supply lines. This was more; this was _personal._

And Leliana seemed perfectly calm about it. He understood that she dealt in secrecy and deception. Only a very poor spymaster would find any of it shocking. Still, he thought to hear at least some irritatin, a hint of vitriol he felt, in her voice.

“Then why aren’t they all in irons?” Cullen demanded.

“Because it is in our best interest to _watch._ We have detained two of them. Both are harmless, and appear to know very little of consequence,” Leliana said. “This should put the others at ease, for a time. They will think we are satisfied that the spies have been rooted out, and that they are no longer under suspicion. It will give us an opportunity to observe them further. Their secrets will become our secrets, and we will use those secrets against them.”

It made perfect sense. Lulling the better hidden among them into a false sense of security, waiting for a moment of complacency. But ration and reason were forgotten, buried under Cullen’s bubbling anger. He seethed at the thought of Ellana being made a pawn in a spymaster's scheme.

“So you'll just dangle her as bait for another monster?” he spat. “Rather than do you _job-”_

“You seek to lecture me once more about _my_ job?” Leliana said, almost laughing with incredulity. “Perhaps you should have considered all of this before you decided to mix business with pleasure.”

Taken aback, Cullen snapped, “ _Mix business with pleasure_? Do not speak about my _wife_ as if she were a plaything with which I content myself.”

Leliana stared at him flatly, her expression betraying little emotion but for the subtle arch of a brow. “Then do not speak about _your wife_ as if she were an imbecile, and unaware of what is at stake if we waste any opportunity given to us. If the Inquisitor harbored any doubts as to my priorities or my loyalty, she would have voiced them long ago.”

“So,” she continued, crossing her hands primly behind her back, “would you like to continue shouting at me like a spoiled child, and give the remaining spies a very juicy bit of intelligence to bring Fen’harel? Or shall we continue our discussion in a civil manner?”

Cullen leaned forward on the table in front of him, head hanging low as he took a deep breath.

“You are right. _Again,”_ he sighed. “And I apologize. _Again.”_

“If we begin to doubt one another’s motivations, especially without the banner of the Inquisition to unite us, then our enemy has already won. My instinct tells me that Solas is playing the long game. But it will quickly become very short if we falter.”

Cullen nodded as he pushed himself upright. He faced Leliana and mimicked her posture: shoulders back, hands clasped behind him.

“Who are the two that you detained?” he asked, keeping his voice calm and measured. “And what have they confessed?”

“The first is a stable hand. I am not even sure that his contact truly is an agent of Fen’harel…” Leliana rolled her eyes, “Very young, not terribly bright. Stories of elven glory, taking back what is rightfully theirs - all too appealing to a boy raised in Denerim’s alienage. He is _quite_ a useful deterrent, though. Moaning and whimpering if the guards so much as look at him.”

“The other,” she continued, seeming suddenly hesitant, “is more… complicated. A chambermaid. She came to _us_ , a week after we returned from Halamshiral.”

Cullen blanched - a stable hand was one thing, but a chambermaid? They slipped in and out of Ellana’s quarters every day. No one would bat an eye at their presence. They had access to her food, her drink, to _her_ at her most private and vulnerable moments.

“She _confessed?_ ” he balked.

“Yes. We were just as surprised. Apparently she felt quite guilty, seeing the Inquisitor convalesce after her… ordeal. She had been spying for some time, and was tasked with collecting any information about the Inquisitor she could obtain. Particularly about her personal affairs - her mood, her health, her well-being and relationships.”

Leliana paused, studying Cullen carefully, seeming to consider how much more she wished to tell him.

“The maid was very upset. She was assured by her contact that no harm would come to the Inquisitor. I interrogated her personally. If I had the slightest suspicion that she was anything other than repentant, we would not be having this conversation.”

“Yes, I’m sure she was very concerned, as she rifled through the Inquisitor’s letters and snooped through her desk…” Cullen drawled.

He pinched his fingers to the bridge of his nose, feeling the pressure build behind his eyes. “Should we tell her?” he asked.

“Absolutely not,” Leliana replied instantly. “You are leaving in two days, and the Inquisition is just beginning the process of dismantling. We need to have as many threads intact as possible, if we are to continue looking for him.”

“And besides, what good would it do?”

He hated to keep anything from her, as things had been kept from him. But there was nothing to be gained from telling her now. She needed calm, comfort, reassurance. Knowing that Solas had long ago infiltrated their ranks would only bring more needless worry.

“No good at all,” he mumbled.

“ _Go,_ ” Leliana said. “That is the wisest decision you can make. Go. Live. Let _him_ watch, just as we do.”

 _“_ Let him watch?” This seemed a step too far in Cullen’s mind. It was one thing to tolerate the presence of spies for a time; it was another to encourage them to continue their task under his nose.

“Yes. Do you honestly think his plan relies on whether Ellana is in a good mood? Whether she has eaten well, or drank too much wine? Whether she welcomes you to her bed, or seems cross? Of course it doesn’t. But he _wants_ to know.”

Leliana stared at him again, looking Cullen up and down in a manner that always left him feeling unsettled. She didn’t bother to conceal her disbelief - that he couldn’t see things as she did, when it seemed so obvious.

“So, _let him watch._ Let him see you enjoy everything that he cannot have. Let him see you live out every fantasy he might have entertained. _Your_ wife. _Your_ child. _Your_ life together with them. Let him glut himself on it, and let us pray that perhaps jealousy compels him to do something foolish.”

It turned Cullen’s stomach, to think of his life, his joy, as simply a means to mock another man. As if it weren’t genuine, simply a ploy to spite Solas.

Leliana looked at him more fondly now, “The two of you are happy. You shouldn’t let him distract you from that.”

“It is difficult not to.”

“Since when has difficulty stopped you?” she countered.

Cullen tilted his head and shrugged. _Fair enough._

Secrets divulged, they left the war room behind and slowly made their way down the hall to Josephine’s office.

“Commander Rylen and his men should be arriving any day now,” Leliana said. “The closure of Griffon Wing Keep went quite smoothly by all reports.”

“I don’t think anyone was sorry to see Griffon Wing abandoned, least of the the soldiers stationed there,” Cullen said.

“True enough. It was an easy concession to make. And it sends a rather fitting message to Ferelden. Josie has been expecting a sternly worded letter from Arl Teagan for days, but...” Leliana trailed off as she pushed open the heavy wooden door to the Ambassador’s office. Laughter echoed from the room.

Cullen smiled, pleased to see Ellana in such high spirits. She was standing behind Josephine, leaning in close at her shoulder to read whatever amused them both so.

“Can you believe it?” Josie sputtered, wiping tears from her cheeks. “It if it weren’t so utterly laughable, I would say you should be rather insulted by the impertinence of the suggestion.”

Ellana looked up at him, trying hard to tamp down the hint of a grin on her lips. “Let’s see what Cullen thinks… Shall we name our firstborn _Louis-Gaston Anatole Pierre-Jacques Thibault?_ We can call him _Tibby_ for short.”

“I…” Cullen sputtered, as Josephine doubled over with laughter again.

“Oh, Commander. The look on your face is priceless,” she sighed. “Perhaps I will have to thank the Comte for this. I haven’t laughed so hard in ages.”

Patting Josie on the shoulder one last time, Ellana rounded the desk and swiftly crossed the room toward Cullen. She slipped his arm into hers, reaching up on tiptoe to kiss him lightly on the cheek.

“Come with me,” she said, tugging him forward out of the room.

Cullen followed in her wake, surprised by her demeanor. She’d still been asleep when he rose at dawn, and he’d dressed and slipped out of the room as quietly as possible. He could hardly have guessed that a good night’s rest might have wrought such a change.

“You’re in a very good mood today,” he said, unable to contain his curiosity.

“I am,” Ellana smiled, pulling him across the Great Hall. _“Someone_ very sweetly tucked an extra blanket over me when they left this morning, and I was quite reluctant to leave the bed. But hiding in my little nest gave some time to think.”

The rotunda was the last place he expected her to take him. The space had been treated as tainted ground ever since Solas’s departure. It was a place to pass through; no one lingered there other than the occasional servant sweeping dust from the stones. The desk, long since emptied of his effects, still stood in the center of the room.

She stood beside him in front of the Watchful Eye, the Blade of Mercy, fingers gripping his arm a little more tightly.

“I _hated_ these murals for the longest time,” Ellana said. “Did you know I almost tried to chisel them off the walls once?”

Cullen hesitated, “I… may have heard something to that effect.”

“I was so _angry_ ,” she shook her head ruefully. “Sitting in the Hall with Varric, listening to him rant at Josephine because he thought the servants moved the papers on his desk. It just went right through me - that he was the one who broke _my_ heart, and yet he acted as if his was broken, too.”

She took a deep breath in, leaning her head against his shoulder as she exhaled. Her eyes were wide, taking in the frescoes with a sense of wonder that seemed incongruent with the story she told.

“So I pulled out my dagger and stormed off. I stood right here and ran my thumb across the back of the blade, and for all the world, I wanted to chip every last bit of plaster off the walls. Varric eventually talked me down, dragged me off the Rest for a pint.”

“I may also have heard something to _that_ effect,” Cullen chimed.

Ellana turned her face into his arm, her embarrassed groan muffled against the heavy wool of his sleeve.

“I got absolutely piss drunk in the middle of the afternoon,” she said, tilting her head up to peek at him. “It was awful. I started crying, and then I think I threw up in a bush somewhere...”

“The viburnum in the Chantry garden, beside the statue of Andraste,” he mumbled.

Cullen had been sworn to secrecy. He was sitting alone that day, the cold drizzle driving everyone else indoors. He watched as Varric held her hair back and patted her gently on the back, _“There you go… Get it all out, Chestnut,”_ before helping the Inquisitor back to her quarters.

He had come to Cullen’s office later that night - “Not a word of this to anyone, Curly. _Especially_ not her.”

Cullen felt a little guilty, admitting it to Ellana now, expecting her to bury her face against his arm again. But she surprised him once more, tilting her head back and giggling loudly.

“No!” she nearly shouted. “Gods, no wonder Varric wouldn’t tell me what I did! Oh, that poor, lovely bush… That’s the one that gets the little white flowers, the ones that smell like pears and honey, isn’t it?”

She slid her fingers down his arm, slipping them snuggly between each of his own and squeezing gently.

“I know I’ve been…” Ellana looked up at him with her mouth held open for a moment, then sighed. “And I’m not making any sense yet… It’s just… Well, _it_ is your fault, you know.”

Cullen smiled and glanced around to make sure they were alone. Even still, she blushed as his hand swept over the curve of her belly.

“I will take all the blame, gladly. I’ve had absolutely no regrets about any of my actions in this affair,” he smirked.

“Well I’m fairly sure it happened on your desk, so I certainly don’t have any regrets about _that_ part either. But you’re not the one whose trousers don’t fit, and doesn’t know whether to laugh, cry or stab something at any given moment.”

But Cullen was lost again to rose-tinted visions - noses and eyes and names and the sound of his own, a _new_ name. All the little potentials that grew underneath his palm. They pulled at her, pulled _from_ her, and it was the least he could do to be laughed at, cried upon, and even stabbed, if necessary. He just wanted them to still be there, to be whole, to be safe.

“Come here,” Ellana said again, pulling him from his reverie, moving them a little further forward and away from the center of the room.

“This place - it’s been my _home_. Your home. It’s been home to everyone here. All the memories, the lives we lived.”

“And it was _his_ home, too. No one made him do this,” she said, gesturing out to the frescoes. “The angry little part of me tried to say he did it out of boredom or to stroke his ego. But… This isn’t the creation of someone evil. There’s no vanity, there’s _pride_. Pride in the Inquisition, all of us and what we did. Everything we’ve done, it changed us all, including him.”

There was something beautifully hopeful in her expression, and Cullen knew he could say nothing, _should_ say nothing, to take that away. It was what he loved so much about her - that no matter the trials she endured, Ellana inevitably landed on the side of optimism. And it sat so well on her. If she chose to think the best of Solas, he would not say otherwise. Not yet, at least.

“I don’t want my memories to taste bitter. I can choose to remember the good, even if I don’t understand why he walks the path he does. But I think I have to let go of the rest for now, don’t I?”

She looked up at Cullen again, clear-eyed and resolute. Even under the weight of his silence, her confidence had not wavered. He leaned down, tucking his hand gently under her chin as he touched his lips to hers. He closed his eyes and thanked the Maker for her sanguine heart.

Leliana’s words echoed in his mind as they kissed, _Let him watch._ In the baleful shadow of the wolf, he tasted the determination on her tongue and pulled her body flush against his.

Ellana pulled away from him slowly, her lips curling into the beautiful, slow grin that he treasured.

“I’ll take that as agreement,” she said.

“I agree that there are many memories in these walls,” Cullen replied, hoping it didn’t sound quite as evasive as it felt. “It’s been a good home.”

“It has,” she said, her voice soft and fingers wrapping onto his again. “But it’s time to make a new one.”

 

 


	29. A Blind Tomorrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Choo choo, all aboard the smut train, y'all.

The pace of their journey had been tedious so far, largely at Cullen’s insistence. At the last minute, he suggested they travel by carriage. Or rather, he suggested that _she_ travel by carriage. Ellana was not exactly in a hurry to arrive, but she refused to be treated like a feeble and fragile thing. 

They went back and forth, both digging their heels in and refusing to see the other's perspective. The argument culminated in Ellana's suggestion that he _“lasa adahl su nar masa.”_ She knew that resorting to insults in elven was hardly her finest moment. But it was galling - the idea that he knew her body better than she did. Even if it was born of care, she just wanted to do this as she had before, for a little while longer. 

What she didn't anticipate was Cullen’s continued dedication to the more colorful aspects of her native tongue. His immediate retort, “I’d rather _not_ shove a tree up my arse, thank you,” stopped her anger in its tracks.

She apologized for being snappish. He apologized for being stubborn. They agreed the journey would be made on horseback, but their pace of would be “gentler.”

But what Cullen saw as “gentle”, Ellana initially saw as “exceedingly slow.” She was used to the breakneck speed at which she travelled with the Inquisition, riding dusk to dawn. Tiredness hadn’t been an option. Even after ten or twelve hours in the saddle, setting up camp, and cobbling together a meal, she would often lay awake on her bedroll in the dark. Planning, plotting, moving pieces. Every hour spent asleep was an hour closer they came to doom. 

As time wore on, though, she found herself grateful for the shorter days and more frequent stops. Riding half as long left her feeling twice as exhausted. While she still thought of herself as neither fragile nor feeble, it was true that she wasn't the same. 

It was impossible to create something from nothing. The women in her clan, round and smiling, full and fussed over… she couldn't quite see herself in that way yet. It still felt like an _it_. Small, not making its presence too obvious to others. Ellana remembered their smiles, but she also remembered their tired eyes - a new sort of tiredness she understood all too well now. 

Traveling halfway across Ferelden with Cullen and Sera was a unique experience, though not one she hoped to repeat soon. Cullen’s patience for Sera’s quips and jabs was exhausted fairly quickly. Ellana tried to form a bridge between their wildly different personalities. Sera's wit could be harsh, but it cut through many tense moments when they travelled together. It had provided a distraction from the weight on all their shoulders. 

No one was immune - Sera's barbs were strictly egalitarian. Most importantly, her irreverence had broken down barriers. Cassandra struggled with that aspect at first, insisting it undermined Ellana's authority. But rather than causing Ellana to lose face, it made her _real._ Where Cassandra had wanted to place her on the pedestal, Sera brought her down to their level. When Inquisition soldiers saw her as she was - frightened but fierce, doing her best to wear a mantle that was thrust upon her - they chose on their own to lift her onto the pedestal. For all Ellana's discomfort at being venerated, she far preferred they do it by choice than by obligation. 

Cullen, however, was used to his role as Commander. His authority depended on maintaining a certain distance. In the thick of the fighting and fear, his voice needed to cut through the din. His soldiers needed to obey it instinctually. He didn't have the time or opportunity to forge friendships with each of the thousands of men and women he commanded. He didn't have the advantage of purported Divine intervention and the ability to close rifts in the sky. So he _needed_ to nip teasing and sarcasm and mocking in the bud, as a Commander. However, as a Cullen Rutherford, Sera was having none of it.

Ellana pleaded for peace, adopting a weary expression. She _may_ have also surreptitiously placed her hand on her belly… because she _may_ have been tired enough of them both to play the “please don't make the pregnant women break up your squabbling” card. It was surprisingly effective. 

Despite the moments of friction, Ellana was grateful for the chance to take in the scenery with eyes that were neither hurried nor distracted. The gods were kind, staving off the infamous Fereldan rain, ushering them across the rolling, green expanse beneath clear skies. Southern Thedas was rebuilding - ruins and rubble had been cleared away, the pieces with life left in them were assimilated into new construction. 

Most importantly, _people_ had returned to the places left scarred by both Corypheus and the Mage-Templar war. Fields were flush with grain; farmers and laborers walked the rows, carefully tending to new growth. They nurtured the beginning of a long chain - grain to sack to stone to bread. Loaves that would feed the families who found peace in the towns they passed, after blight and war had ravaged the land for too long. 

They camped along the edge of Lake Calenhad, then stayed at a small inn outside Redcliffe. Cullen was quiet, and Sera filled the void with an endless stream of Skyhold’s dirty laundry - the secret love affairs and strange habits of its denizens. 

“Why are you telling me all of this now?” Ellana asked her on the third morning, after a particularly salacious tale about a kitchen maid and one of Harrit’s apprentices. 

“Because _now_ you don’t have to look all of them in the eye and be serious, knowing what they’re getting up to behind the stables,” Sera replied. “You really want to know _she’s_ the one touching your food after that story?” 

Nights were quiet between them all. Cullen seemed more distracted than distant. He busied himself with setting up their tent and stoking the fire. Ellana laid on the bedroll beside him, and he pulled her in close, her head tucked under his chin. But she could feel that he was still awake, even as she drifted off. 

After they passed Lothering, following the meandering road along the river, Sera began to question Cullen more about his family. 

Mia was the eldest. She married James back in Honnleath, before they’d fled during the Blight. Fortune had smiled on them, and they owned a farm just outside of South Reach. Along with a small orchard and cider press, they also had a substantial apiary, supplying honey to a meadery near Denerim. 

Branson was the third of them, his brother’s opposite in every way. Whereas Cullen was thirteen going on thirty when he left, Branson took his time to mature. Mia had written him more than a few letters lamenting their youngest brother’s irresponsibility. But the most egregious bit of recklessness also brought about the biggest change in him.

Years before, in his wilder days, Branson became enamored with a young woman. Emblyn was a serving girl at the local inn, and he was a frequent patron. Proud and strong-willed, she told Branson she was pregnant only as a courtesy, well aware of his reputation and fully prepared to care for the child herself. Two days later, he asked her to marry him. She refused, _emphatically_. It took him four months, never stepping foot into a pub and apprenticing himself to a cabinetmaker, to convince her that he was serious. 

Cullen’s nephew Gavin was the happy result of their union, and the boy was doted upon thoroughly by his aunts. 

Rosalie was youngest of them all - still a child when their family fled, and their parents’ death had hit her the hardest. She lived with Mia and James, helping out on the farm; she was particularly skilled at weaving skeps for the honeybees. 

“Wait, _bees?”_ Sera exclaimed, as soon as Cullen paused for a breath. 

“Yes, _as I mentioned_ _already_ ,” he replied testily. 

She turned to Ellana, wide-eyed with shock, “You didn’t tell me there were _bees!”_

They still were several days from South Reach, but this fact became the sole fixation of Sera’s attention for the rest of the trip. She pestered Cullen for details he didn’t have. 

Sera only followed along for Ellana’s sake. But now she had a mission, a purpose - _bees._ His siblings were no longer presumed to be lackluster clones of Cullen - they were the gatekeepers of ultimate mayhem, so long as empty jars could be found.

Ellana prayed that they were all patient people.

\--

The last night before they arrived in South Reach, they stayed at another dingy roadside inn. Their room was small and cramped - a single bed pushed against the wall, tiny nightstand and oil lamp beside it. A small table and chairs were shoved into the corner. Cullen suggested they retire early, eager to leave at dawn the next day. 

Ellana insisted she wasn’t tired, and sat on the edge of one of the worn and wobbly chairs. Varric had seen her off from Halamshiral with half a dozen new books. A thick volume, bound in a garish shade of purple, sat open before her. But she hadn’t turned a page in nearly half an hour, reading the same few sentences over and over, until her gaze became unfocused and she was lost in thought again.

Cullen was shirtless and stretched out on top of the worn plaid quilt. Arms folded behind him, hands tucked under his head, he smiled - an expression that straddled the line between unassuming and inviting. He had, thankfully, learned to ignore Sera’s japes.

The worries of Skyhold seemed to flake away from him the further they went. But the brimming optimism Ellana held when they left, faltered a little now.

“I can take the floor, if you need room to spread out,” Cullen offered. 

Ellana was grateful that her nighttime “sprawl” was an accepted fact of life for him at this point. She took up three-quarters of the bed, only to wake up snaked around him and squeezed into the sliver of space he was allotted. 

“No, it’s not that.” She fiddled with the sash of her robe, then closed the book, brushing her fingers across the ornate, gold-embossed lettering - _“Secret Tales of an Orlesian Mistress.”_ Not one of her friend’s better selections, but there were more than a few scenes she had bookmarked for later.

Her legs felt heavy as she crossed the room and sat down beside Cullen. He gazed up at her affectionately, reaching out tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers brushed down her neck and rested at the edge of her collar.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I don't know anything about bees,” Ellana said. 

_Did that sound as ridiculous as it seems?_ she thought.

Cullen paused, opening and closing his mouth silently a few times. Apparently it did. 

“I… don't know anything about bees either…?” he stammered, looking utterly perplexed.

Ellana rolled her eyes and sighed, “What I mean is… What am I going to say to them? What am I going to _talk_ to about with your family? What if they like Sera better? At least she can talk about bees. I don’t know... _anything_.”

She was worried, and frustrated he didn’t seem to understand. She knew _nothing_ about the kind of life his family led. An aravel to an ancient castle… and now to a farm in the middle of Ferelden. The Dalish weren’t really farmers - they were foragers, hunters, crafters. She could walk into the middle of a forest and find food and shelter. But she didn’t know anything about beets or hay bales or whatever else made up the mundane tasks that would fill her days. 

Cullen seemed to find nothing serious in what she said, though, and burst into raucous laughter. 

“I'm… I'm…” he took a deep breath, forcing the corners of his mouth into a more acceptable position. “I'm sorry, Ellana, but--”

“Cullen, I'm serious!” 

“Are you, though?” he teased, as she shoved a musty pillow over his face. 

_“Yes!”_ she insisted, picking the pillow up by the corners and lobbing it down at him again. “Maybe I will make you sleep on the floor, and hope that the mice crawl all over you.”

He pushed the pillow off, tucked it under his head. Ellana could see he was trying to look chastened, arm slung over his eyes. But he failed miserably - the shaking stomach was a dead giveaway that Cullen was _still_ laughing.

“I'm sorry,” he said, sneaking a hesitant glance at her. She rolled her eyes, crossed her arms, and turned her nose up at him. He wasn’t getting off the hook that easily.

But Cullen spread his arms out wide, offering her a conciliatory embrace. Ellana felt perhaps he knew her weaknesses a little too well... She wasn’t really angry - just nervous and exasperated by her own mental gymnastics. Comfort was what she needed, and what he offered.

He buried his face in the crook of her neck, placing a line of small kisses from the top her shoulder to the edge of her jaw, just below her earlobe. Yet another weakness, melting through her anxiety and pulling at other feelings she struggled to express.

“They will do nothing but adore you,” Cullen whispered. “Please don't worry… After tomorrow, we will have nothing to do for two weeks but patiently endure them all.”

“And then you leave,” Ellana said somberly. 

He brushed the edge of his lips against the shell of her ear. Ellana arched her back, warm breath hissing from her lips with satisfaction.. 

“It won’t be long - a month at most,” he promised, shifting his weight, so that she laid almost beneath him. “And if Rylen does not catch on quickly, I will make him a list and pray for the best.”

Cullen leaned forward, sealing his mouth over hers, his tongue eagerly parting her lips. A _hum_ of pleasure echoed in the back of her throat, paired with the involuntary roll of her hips.The press of his own hips to meet her, the friction as he moved against her, made every day of the past weeks stand in stark contrast to that moment.

She had taken to changing behind a screen, and asked to bathe alone; Ellana struggled to explain. Cullen told her an explanation wasn’t necessary. Time or space or whatever she needed was his to give - _anything and everything_ , he reminded her. She still leaned into his touch, still turned her face up gladly to welcome his kiss. Desire was still palpable, just hidden behind the barriers of her body’s strange arithmetic. She struggled to wrap her head around it all being laid bare - parts missing, parts changed. 

“And when I return,” Cullen continued, his voice not quite steady, “I will buy the biggest bed in South Reach and a strong lock for the door.” 

Ellana drew her fingers in a line up back of his neck, “Be sure it’s a sturdy bed, too.”

He quickly slid his hand beneath the small of her back, a bold attempt to them turn over and reverse their positions. But the sagging mattress foiled his effort to be playful, nearly sending them both rolling off the edge. 

One hand grappling the wrought iron spindles of the bed frame, Cullen struggled to keep them upright. Ellana clapped her hand over his mouth as he cried out, despite her own shriek of amusement. 

“Sera is on the other side of the wall!” she scolded. Ellana swatted at his hands as he settled them back on the bed, shifting her into position above him. 

“I think Sera has an idea of what we do,” Cullen said.

Straddling him now, she leaned forward as if to kiss. He kept his hands wrapped gently at her waist, ready to give balance if her own faltered. But Ellana only brushed her lips against his, pulling away at the last moment. She was too quick to capture, despite Cullen giving chase. 

“Too slow,” she teased. 

“I can’t recall that ever being a problem before…” 

“Really?” Her shoulders curled forward as she moved her hips again. “I seem to recall many times when you were very, very slow. But I suppose you’re right - it was definitely not a problem.”

Her fingertips danced between his scars, tracing the curve of muscle down to his hip. He tensed under her touch as she hooked one onto the band of his breeches, tugging lightly.

Cullen’s expression, painted with desire, flickered briefly.

“We don't have to,” he insisted. 

“And if I want to?” she asked, no longer content to hint, pulling at the tightly knotted string centered on his waist.

“Then who am I to refuse…” 

There was no teasing or denial in the way she kissed him now, only longing and want. Cullen slid his hands up her thighs, pushing under the soft cotton flannel of her robe and night dress, expecting a barrier that never came. Instead of her smalls, his hands only cupped smooth skin.

Ellana felt suddenly, sheepishly aware of her bareness. Days in the saddle, wearing a pair of leather trousers grown far too tight, had chafed her raw. After she stripped them off and washed in the basin that evening, the thought of putting on anything below was unbearable. 

Cullen’s calloused palms moved in slow, lazy circles; he arched into her with every downward swipe. The front of his breeches tugged down a little further each time; they were both clothed yet exposed now. The way he looked at her - hungry, greedy, as if touching her was his singular purpose in this world - left Ellana feeling bold. 

Teeth nipping at her bottom lip, she slipped a hand between them. Cullen’s eyes grew wider; his own hands stilled, digging into her backside as he watched. She pushed her fingers a little deeper, just enough to feel the growing wetness at the apex of her thighs.

Cullen sputtered encouragement that didn’t quite coalesce into words. But touching herself wasn’t what Ellana had in mind. Instead she wrapped her slick fingers around him, stroking tightly over the swollen tip that peeked out above his waistband. 

“Maker’s breath,” he moaned, and Ellana smirked - if the Maker was watching, he was sure to get an eyeful.

Cullen’s hands slid impatiently up the front of her gown, skimming over her breasts and back down. Grasping her tightly above the hips again, he suddenly lifted her forward with ease - for all Ellana’s strength, she was still slight by comparison. 

“What are you- _Oh..._ ” she gasped. 

She was spread wide over him,perched just above his mouth. Cullen turned his head and stroked his lips gently over the reddened skin of her inner thighs. He was careful not to brush his stubble against her, only to soothe and entice. Despite how sore she had been earlier, all she craved now was more friction. But his hands held her firmly in place while he teased. 

Bunching the fabric of her nightgown into his fist and holding it out of the way, Cullen finally gave her the beginnings of relief. He thrust the tip of his tongue past the soft thatch of curls. Ellana could barely steady herself in time, leaning forward into the wall for balance. It was a new position, but met with familiar determination. 

Cullen was always so slow when he had her like this, dragging the release she sought from her at an aching pace. She’d tried to reciprocate before, slinking down to her knees while he sat at his desk. But he’d quickly pulled away, lifting her into his lap. _I just… I don’t want to see you kneel. Please._ It confused her at first, this sense that he saw giving pleasure as some kind of penance. 

But Ellana came to understand it wasn’t penance, but praise. He parted her lips again now, and every stroke and flick of his tongue was worship. Her strength, her beauty - he only wanted to see her exultant and radiant, never bowed.

Cullen’s eyes were fixed firmly on hers, watching the subtle changes in her expression, scrutinizing every reaction. It was deeply arousing - a skillful man under her who wanted nothing more than to make her see stars. She leaned her forehead against the peeling wallpaper, oblivious to where they were and indifferent to anyone was listening. 

The hitch of her breath spurred him on, hand joining his tongue, and she felt it build, rise, swell. Release was in his grasp, but within her reach. Cullen planted his feet firmly on the bed now, knees bent, his own hips thrusting at the empty air as she whined. 

“Yes… _please…_ ” Ellana whimpered, and of course, he obliged. His lips latched onto her as she came, his rumble of satisfaction echoed through her as she shuddered. 

He timed the lapping of his tongue with the steady but slowing movement of her hips, bringing her down gently. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the sensation, the emptiness of mind that accompanied pleasure. The world was contained within those four walls for a few minutes, and in them she was loved and wanted and needed for only what she could give. 

“So much better…” Cullen mumbled between more gentle kisses to her thighs.

“Only better?” Ellana said, as she scooted back awkwardly on the too-small bed. “I didn’t realize I had so much competition.” She grinned, her head still floating somewhere around the ceiling. 

But Cullen was all seriousness, gathering her close to face him as he replied, “No, _never._ Only you.”

He pulled her into a kiss, teasing her tongue with his own, her taste still heavy upon it. “Only you,” he repeated, “ _ma’ harausha.”_

Ellana’s grin widened. Hearing him say the words he’d only dared to learn in his cups, and hardly dared to speak again once he learned their meaning. Drunk on lust, drunk on _her_. She kissed him again and again. She would be his honey, his wine, whatever else he needed to sate himself. 

How had she ever doubted? Robe still knotted over the slight swell, sleeve still pinned in place - how could she think anything would make him want her less? 

“Help me take this off,” Ellana said. 

Cullen quickly untied the sash, pulled the robe from her shoulders, nightgown up and over her head. She raised herself enough for him to slip his breeches off his hips; he kicked them off awkwardly the rest of the way, unwilling to move her from his lap. 

“Beautiful,” he hummed as he stroked his hands across her body. He moved under her, hard and still in need of his own relief. 

“Let me take care of you,” she said, angling her hips back and brushing his tip against her entrance. 

He held her steady, filling her in one swift motion that pushed the breath from her lungs. Again he sought to gather her in, pull her close, but she arched her back away from him. 

_“Let me take care of you,”_ Ellana repeated. She slid his hands down to rest on her hips, and sat tall astride him.

He was so patient, and he was so eager with his care for her. She wanted to return the gesture. Steadying her knees into the rumpled mattress, she rose up, sinking back down onto him again slowly. Cullen’s eyes were fixed on the point where they joined, watching her take the length of him with unsteady breath. 

Even though she was on top, there was still something possessive about the way he stared, the way his fingers splayed on her thighs, the way he whispered _“yes”_ \- not encouragement, but approval. Ellana knew that he could easily reverse their positions; control was his to call on if he wished. But he wasn’t a man who was aroused by disparity. He enjoyed her enjoyment. He needed her need. 

She quickened her pace, the muscles in her thighs burning. But listening to _yes_ become _yeah_ become wordless panting spurred her on. He was close and Ellana enjoyed giving satisfaction just as much as he enjoyed receiving it. 

Cullen’s hands no longer gripped her thighs, but fisted tightly into the bedding - one wrapped in the quilt spread under them, one gripping the pillow at his head. 

His hips thrust up to meet her, faster and faster until they stuttered. His hand shot out to the wall, smacking against the plaster in a failed effort to steady himself as he moaned... 

“Oh _, fuck…”_

Ellana smiled, satisfied as she rode him through his release. She hoped the Maker wasn’t listening either, for Cullen’s sake.

\--

Sera polished the ironbark in long, smooth strokes. _Dalish might be crap at picking gods, but they know how to make a bow_ , she thought. 

Dane was curled up at the foot of her bed. Eyes closed, head tucked onto his paws, he was lulled to sleep by the rhythmic swish of the chamois.

It was a shitty inn. But it was the last one, for a little while at least. Thin mattress, thin blanket. Thin walls, too - a loud thump followed by muffled laughter bled through to her room. Sera saw the mabari's left ear twitch. 

“Yeah, yeah, I know…” she mumbled, stroking her oil-coated fingers through his fur. The scent was sharp and resinous, but comforting to them both. 

Sera barely noticed it anymore. Vivienne had often complained, said it gave her a headache. 

“Maybe it's not the smell, but those horns on your head,”Sera quipped once, and Varric had almost choked on his ale. She made a point of caring for her bow diligently when they traveled together.

Madame de Fer was long gone, _Good riddance._ The only iron in sight now was the bed she sat upon. Same as in all the rooms. Seemed like only bit of kit in the inn that wouldn't fall apart if you looked at it funny. But judging by the persistent squeak on the other side of the wall, they were all in need of a good oiling, too. 

Dane's ear twitched again, and Sera sighed. “That's why you're in with me… Two of them, one little bed. Bow's not the only thing getting polished tonight.” 

Sera gave the mabari a quick scratch behind the ear - not quite the right spot, but close enough to soothe him - and went back to work. “It’ll be quick,” she mumbled. 

But it seemed they were determined to prove her wrong. Twenty minutes later, Dane had given up all pretense of sleeping. He stared up at Sera plaintively. She tried to ignore it. But when she realized she was swiping the cloth back and forth in time with the pace of the squeak, she threw her bow down on the floor in disgust.

Dane's head popped up, alarmed and instantly alert. One final thump against the wall, followed by a deep voice, groaning muffled words that Sera thought sounded distinctly like _“Oh, fuck.”_

“Guess your master gets mouthy when he's having fun…” she said, tugging the blankets out from under the startled mabari, and nudging him back into the empty space at the foot of the bed. 

Dane settled in against the curve of her legs uneasily at first. His ears pricked up and his body stilled, listening for the sound of the man's voice again. 

Sera yawned loudly, and blew out the candle on the nightstand. 

“Least we'll get to sleep in in the morning…”


	30. Unfettered Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are at long last...

On their final day of travel, all thought of slowness was abandoned. Cullen was eager to arrive. He was eager to see his family, to introduce them to his wife, to bridge the gap between the two halves of his life and self - past and present. He was eager to share in their joy for his future. He was happy, and he was impatient. 

They rode through a patchwork of color, greens and golds neatly hemmed in by low stone walls. It was easy to see why the Bannorn was called the Breadbasket of Ferelden. Even though they only skirted the edges of the region, the landscape was still dominated by farms and pasture land. Quaint villages punctuated long, verdant stretches of the Imperial Highway, and came with greater frequency as they neared South Reach.

The faster they rode, the closer they came to the end of their journey, the broader Cullen’s smile grew. And the deeper the dread in Ellana’s stomach sank. _This is ridiculous_ , she told herself. The letters his family sent were warm and welcoming. The offer to stay was freely and enthusiastically made. There was nothing to worry about. She ticked off a mental list of her merits and charms: savior of Thedas, slayer of demons, shiny hair, excellent posture, passable cooking, decent at chess, pointed ears, missing arm, heretical upbringing… 

She calculated the distance to Kirkwall (too far), wondered how far Cullen would follow her if she did run (the entire way), and debated how long Varric would agree to hide her (not long enough). Orlais was too obvious, Tevinter was too dangerous. Antiva was too humid and her hair would be a frizzy disaster. She could call in Sera’s drunken promise to run away to Rivain and become pirates. And likely spend the rest of her days being chased across the seas by one very disgruntled Fereldan.

South Reach it was, then. 

They began to slow down a few hours later, when they neared yet another village. It was larger than those they’d previously passed through. The people seemed less wary, their proximity to the city making them accustomed to travelers. Judging by the lack of carts or stalls in the town square, they’d not arrived on a market day. But the village still buzzed with activity. Narrow shop fronts that lined the main street were doing a brisk trade. The persistent _tink_ of a blacksmith’s hammer echoed through the air. 

The square was dominated by the local Chantry. An imposing facade, crafted from smooth blocks of honey-colored stone, and fitted with mullioned windows. Large, arching wooden doors were open wide, welcoming in both the faithful and the unseasonably warm, early spring air. A young Sister stood next to the Chanter’s board outside, dutifully reciting a passage from Threnodies. 

“It’s only a few miles west of the village,” Cullen said, more mumbling to himself that speaking to her. His eyes searched over the faces of passersby. “We’re arriving a little earlier than I’d thought… Branson and his family live near here, but I suppose they’ve already gone to the farm.” 

She’d be meeting them all in one fell swoop then. Breathing deep, Ellana steeled herself and wondered if the Anderfels were really as bad as everyone claimed. 

“Are you well?” Cullen asked. “You look a bit pale… Is everything alright? Have you felt any-”

“I’m fine. Just… I didn’t realize were so close already,” Ellana said. 

“Are you sure? Because I have-” 

“What are you two on about?” Sera interrupted, clearly annoyed and seeming just as eager as Cullen to continue forward. “Bees are waiting. Quit being nervous. Nobody ever hates you. You’re all… _sweet._ Just stand there and make your smooch-face at Darling Brother and they’ll eat it up.”

Advice dispensed, Sera galloped off. 

Cullen shook his head in exasperation. “Please remind me _why_ she is here,” he grumbled. 

“That's where you make your mistake. You assume that we had any choice in the matter,” Ellana said, gathering the reins into her hand once again. “She's right, though. I am nervous, and I'll just have to put my faith in the ‘smooch face.’ I'm not exactly sure what that _is_ , but Sera seems rather confident in my ability.” 

Ellana tugged gently on the leather straps, and set off in the direction of Sera's retreating figure.

Once they left the village proper, the road was mostly dirt with a sprinkling of stones - a meager effort to provide some traction, falling woefully short of its goal. Tall hedgerows lined either side, rising well above Ellana's head even on horseback. The green privet walls cast them into shade. Sera slowed down and rejoined them, once she realized she had no idea where they were going. 

Barely a mile later, Cullen stopped at a wide gap in the hedge, where the corner was covered in a tangle of honeysuckle. 

“This is it,” he said. He looked over at Ellana, his smile boyish again. She returned it as best she could. Cullen seemed satisfied enough, and turned down the narrow lane into the orchard.

Taking one last deep breath, she closed her eyes and silently sent up a prayer to any gods willing to listen. 

Rows of apple trees were just coming into bloom. Their branches were riddled with tiny, pale pink flowers, filling the air with a rosey-sweet smell. The beauty was undeniable, and Ellana grinned despite her nerves. She could see herself in the weeks ahead, spreading a blanket beneath them and drinking in the aroma. She could see herself in the years ahead, too. Zig-zagging between the trunks, chasing after rosy cheeks and giggles. Scooping them up in her arms, and listening to the hum of bees hard at work.

Sera was entranced by the low, constant buzz, waving one arm above her. Fuzzy black and yellow bodies, bouncing from bloom to bloom. It seemed more than a little unfair, that the end of result of their industriousness would be tipsy and tilting men.

“This is… _look_ at all of them!” Sera shouted at Cullen. “I take it back. All the shite I ever said about you, all the Commander Tightarse stuff. This is fucking brilliant!” 

The orchard eventually gave way to fields. A large, open structure stood near the edge of the trees. A simple timber frame topped with wooden shingles, it sheltered two long rows of hives. They were large, spiraling coils of twined straw, each one with a small hole facing the front. 

A large plot had been dug for a garden, patches of green sprouting up from the soil. Goats bleated in the distance. Everything seemed bright, new, exuding an air of self-sufficiency. Surely they’d have little need of market days, judging from the bounty on display still so early in the season. 

It would be a lot of work. Work that didn’t involve demons or demagogues. Hands covered in soil instead of blood. _Hand_ , rather. But she could still pluck weeds and pull turnips with just one.

When the house came into view, it was far more spacious than Ellana had expected. Bigger than a cottage, smaller than a manor. Despite their flight from Honnleath, Cullen’s family had carved out a comfortable existence in South Reach. 

Its stone facade was free of the ubiquitous ivy that clung to every shed and garden wall within a hundred miles. The roof was freshly thatched, shutters painted crisp white. The path leading up to it was flat and smooth, ruts and puddles filled in. Patches of primrose and violets were scattered randomly but regularly along it. 

They reached the end of the lane and came to a stop. Ellana saw all six of them lined up outside of the front door. Smiling and eager, teary eyes darting between the three, except for the boy, Gavin. He was swatting a stick back and forth, slaying invisible enemies with aplomb. 

“You're here!” he shouted, rushing forward as soon as Cullen climbed down from his mount, “weapon” discarded on the ground without a second thought. His face was a smattering of freckles and the kind of awkward, gap-toothed grin that came with coppers under his pillow. 

“Who are you?” Cullen demanded, staring down with playful sternness.

“It's me, Uncle Cull - _Gavin!”_ the boy insisted. 

“Gavin? No, you can't possibly be Gavin… I remember him. He was a little thing, about _this_ tall,” Cullen held his hand flat in the air near the boy's shoulders. “No, I think you must be someone else.”

“Stop being silly!” Gavin demanded, eliciting a chorus of laughter from the adults. “You know it's me!”

He knelt down and leaned in close to the boy. Cullen squinted his eyes as he lifted his nephew’s chin and tilted his face this way and that. He turned him to the side and looked into his ear. He spun him around twice then lifted both of the boy's arms, before standing again to declare his inspection complete. 

“Well, I suppose you must be Gavin,” Cullen began warily, before breaking the act and smiling indulgently, much to his nephew's delight. “Have you been good today?”

 _“Yes,”_ the boy said right away, but an instant later seemed less sure. “Well, I did lie to Mother about washing my face… But she never believes me, and always makes me do it again anyways.”

Perched on her horse, still tightly clutching the reins, Ellana struggled to suppress a laugh. Cullen glanced up at her, bemused by his nephew's honesty. 

“Well, then I suppose I shall leave it up to your aunt. Let me help her down, and she can decide whether or not you deserve a treat,” he said. 

Cullen clasped one hand into hers, while the other touched at her side. Ellana slid down less gracefully than she would have on her own. But, she knew it made him feel better to help, and the warmth of his fingers between hers was soothing. 

As she pulled down the hem of her blouse, Gavin stood wide-eyed with a mixture of eagerness and awe. Sera had dismounted and wandered off, halfway across the field and leaning over the gate of the goats’ pen. Ellana realized that _all_ eyes were on her now, waiting for both sweets and introductions to be dispensed.

“What do you think? Do you think he's earned something special?” Cullen asked her. 

“Well, I don't think I've met a child yet who likes washing their face,” Ellana said. “Or their hands. Or any part of themselves, really.”

“Did you know that when I was a little girl,” she continued, “I would run off and climb into a tree to keep from having my hair combed? My papae would have to climb up and carry me down. I'd cry and wail while one of the women held me in their lap, and he brushed out all the knots and snarls. I threw such a fit once, I actually _bit_ him on the hand.”

Gavin's eyes went wider, and he looked over to his uncle for confirmation. Cullen simply shrugged, and seemed just as surprised as his nephew. 

“Did you _really_ bite him?” the boy asked.

“I really did,” Ellana replied, hand over her heart in a gesture of honesty. “So, since you only told a little fib, and didn't give anyone a scar, I think it's only fair that I go ahead and give you a treat.”

She turned around and fumbled with the leather straps on the saddlebag. Gavin sidled in close, standing on tiptoe, craning his neck up as far as he could. She pulled out a small box as he bounced beside her. It was wrapped in brilliant green paper embossed with tiny gold flowers, and tied across the middle with matching gold ribbon. 

“I hope you like them,” Ellana said, placing the box into his eager hands. “They’re one of the only things your uncle actually likes about Orlais, so you may have to share a few with him.” 

Gavin tore into the package with glee, his mother behind him scolding, “Say thank you, Gavin!” _Emblyn_. Ellana had recited their names over and over, and she’d be damned if she forgot one now.

“Thank you,” the boy parroted without taking his eyes off the prize, clearly used to being reminded. Crumpled paper and ribbon littered the ground at his feet. He slipped the lid from the box and marveled at the confections inside. Two dozen chocolates were nestled into crisply pleated paper cups. Each one was a perfectly rounded dome, a fleck of gold leaf centered on its top. 

Cullen leaned in, as Gavin crammed two of them into his mouth at once.

“Are those the ones with raspberry in the middle?” he asked Ellana, and his nephew shifted the box a little further from him. 

“Have _you_ been good, Uncle Cull?” the boy asked, flashing him a chocolate-stained grin. 

“Oh, Maker, you are just as cheeky as your father was at your age,” another of the women declared, stepping forward impatiently. _Mia_ , Ellana guessed. She smiled wistfully at Cullen, and wrapped her arms around him. 

Cullen blinked back his own tears, and hugged his sister tightly. “It's good to see you,” he said, voice thick with emotion. 

“Yes, it is. And it's been _much_ too long,” she replied, her words muffled against his shoulder. “But I'm so happy you're finally here.” 

Ellana stood to the side a little awkwardly. Gavin rolled his eyes at his weeping aunt and uncle. Mia was by turns embracing and looking over her brother. The remainder of his family patiently waited for her to wear herself out. 

Smoothing her hands across Cullen's shoulders one last time, Mia turned her gaze to Ellana.

His sister seemed unsure whether to bow to her or embrace her just the same. Ellana’s heart thumped loudly in her chest. Despite the multitude of reassurances Cullen had given, she still felt a pang of fear, a desperate hope that she didn’t disappoint. 

“Oh, but look at you!” Mia exclaimed, and clapped her hand to her mouth. She laughed self-consciously, shoving Cullen playfully on the arm.

“I had it all planned out what I’d say. But I didn’t know what to expect,” Mia said, stepping forward and touching her gently under the chin without thinking. She studied Ellana more carefully, tears puddling again in the corners of her eyes. “Cullen is not the most _descriptive_ in his letters, as I’m sure you well know. But, of _course_ Andraste’s Herald would be perfectly lovely…” 

“Mia-” 

“Yes, Cullen, I know,” she said, waving her hand at him with irritation. “I will mind my words, but I really _am_ rather cross with you still! All this time, with only the barest hints, then I get a letter telling me you’re _married_. And now you show up on my doorstep with the most _lovely_ woman, looking at her as if the sun rises and sets wherever she steps!”

Without warning, Ellana was swept into Mia's arms. She heard Cullen sigh beside her, and the same from the siblings still to be introduced.

“Give the poor woman a break…” someone mumbled.

Mia stepped quickly back, dabbing at her eyes it. “Oh, I’m sorry, it’s just that you’re-” 

“Yes, I believe we’ve established that she is _lovely_ , Mia,” Cullen interrupted. 

“Well, I'd almost forgotten what a _grump_ you can be! He was such a _serious_ child,” she said, leaning in closer to Ellana, as if she were sharing a secret. “ _Always_ Mother’s favorite, even though he still denies it to this day. And he would get _very_ upset if we didn’t follow the rules. Everything had to be just so - little tin soldiers lined up in formation. He was _furious_ when Branson threw one of them in the lake, and-”

“And it was _you_ who made me go in and fish it out. Now, may I please be introduced to my _lovely_ sister-in-law before you have scared her off completely?” Branson was just as she'd pictured him - dark-haired with a rakish grin, deeply amused by his sister’s flustered fawning. 

A quick succession of welcomes followed. James was the quiet and stolid compliment to Mia’s effusiveness. Emblyn was open and cheerful, but clearly biting her tongue. She rolled her eyes as Mia called after Gavin - her son had grown tired of waiting, and was being paraded around on Cullen’s shoulders. Dane followed close behind, tongue lolling from his mouth. 

Rosalie quietly waited for her turn, the youngest clearly used to coming last. She pressed a hand into Ellana’s, her shyness overcome by a desire to be welcoming. 

“I’m so pleased to finally meet you,” Rosalie said. “I know we all must seem a bit… overwhelming at first. But we're all just very excited. It was such a nice surprise, when Mia read the letter from Cullen…”

“I'm relieved you thought it was _nice_ , rather than just a surprise,” Ellana admitted. 

Rosalie looked startled by her response. “Oh, but of course it was nice!” she insisted. “We were all so happy for Cullen. After everything he's been through, everything we've all been through…”

Rosalie shook her head a little, seeming to pull herself back into the present after trailing off. Dark waves like Branson, but the same amber eyes as the other three. She was nearly the same age as Ellana, just two years younger. 

“It seemed very romantic,” Rosalie said, blushing slightly. “Finding love in the midst of chaos. It's like something out of a story.” 

“My friend would agree,” Ellana replied. “In fact I fully expect that he _will_ write a story about it. And it will be an extremely entertaining pack of lies.”

“You mean Varric Tethras?” Rosalie said breathlessly. “Oh, his books are _wonderful!_ I've read all of them at least a dozen times. Mia says they're rubbish, but she's very…” 

“Pragmatic?” Ellana offered.

Rosalie smiled, looking a little more relaxed at last. “That's putting it nicely, I think.”

“Well, Varric would be absolutely giddy to know that Cullen’s sister is such an admirer of his work. I’m afraid Cullen’s taste in literature is more in line with your sister’s. I sometimes wonder that I have fallen in love with a man who would choose a biography of Kordillus Drakon as light reading,” Ellana said. 

Rosalie covered her mouth as she laughed, eyes darting around as if to make sure no one was looking. 

Their attention was drawn by a loud burst of delighted squeals and barks, as Dane and Gavin ran circles around each other. 

Mia stood to the side, hands on her hips. “You didn’t tell me you were bringing a _dog_ ,” she said, eyeing the scene with more than a little displeasure, despite the boy’s mother smiling broadly.

“He’s not a dog. He’s a _mabari,”_ Cullen corrected, bringing his fingers to his mouth and whistling loudly. “Dane! Here, boy!”

Dane paused, turned to Cullen and stood at attention for a moment, then eagerly resumed his game with the boy. 

Mia crossed her arms and turned to her brother, “A mabari, you say?” 

While she wasn’t exactly eager to risk drawing herself into sibling rivalry, Ellana decided to rescue her husband… and their dog’s ( _mabari’s)_ reputation. 

“Dane!” she called, stepping forward and patting her hands on the tops of her thighs. “Come here this instant!” 

The mabari gave one loud _woof_ , and bounded toward her at once, stopping short and sitting down at her feet. She scratched him behind the ear to reward his obedience, and glanced at Cullen triumphantly. 

Cullen in turn glanced at Mia, far more smug than Ellana had ever seen him, and mirrored her crossed arms. “See? _A mabari._ ” 

Ellana hooked her finger just under the edge of Dane’s collar, and gave a gentle tug to guide him along as she made her get away. The set of Mia’s shoulders made it clear that her argument was far from over, and Ellana wanted absolutely no part of it.

She sat down on the little bench beside the front door, and idly resumed scratching Dane behind his ear. No game or fun could sway him from such pleasure, and he rested his head on her knee. Rosalie chased off after her nephew. Cullen and Mia were in a standoff, his all too familiar look of stubbornness reflected in the woman standing beside him.

“It’s a little scary, isn’t it?” Branson said, sitting down next to her. He leaned back and propped his legs out in front of him. The smirk on his face said it all - _front row seats to the show._

It was undeniable that Mia was Cullen’s sister - the same smile, the same eyes, the same blonde waves, hers pulled into a neat bun but a few strands escaping at the temples. 

Ellana fought back a smile, “They do seem remarkably similar.” 

“You have _no_ idea… If you think one is bad, imaging growing up with two of them. Thedas doesn’t realize its good fortune, that Mia had no desire for soldiering. You’d not have needed to fight a single battle - just send her in to glare at them.” 

Ellana was torn as to how to reply. Clearly, she wished to remain on everyone’s good side. In the end, she allowed her lips to turn up just a bit, glancing sidelong at Branson. That was agreement enough for him, and he clapped her lightly on the back with a hearty laugh.

“Oh, you don’t need to worry about crossing Mia… you’ll be lucky if she isn’t hoisting you up on the wall next to the plaque of Andraste. Cullen wrote her quite a stern little note reminding her _not_ to call you Herald.” Branson shook his head, and rolled his eyes in his sister’s direction. “And we all heard how long _that_ lasted.” 

“It’s fine, really,” Ellana said. 

“It’s not, but it's nice of you to say so. You’re obviously more forgiving than your lesser half,” he quipped. 

“Lesser?”

“Alright, _other_ half. I wouldn't dream of saying 'better’ because I think it's clear who got the better end of the deal,” Branson said, rising from the bench and gesturing for her to follow him as he slowly moved closer to the front door. “I must admit, though… After seeing the two of you together, I suppose I'll have to pay him the five sovereigns. I was fairly sure he'd used the old 'Rutherford Charm’ as my darling wife put it.”

Ellana patted her hand on her middle sheepishly. “And here I worried you'd all think I trapped your brother into marrying me.”

Branson stopped short, and simply replied, “ _No,_ ” with a loud snort of laughter.

“And just _what_ is so funny may I ask?” Emblyn said, stepping in beside him and curling her arm around his waist.

“Apparently we were all supposed to accuse our sister-in-law of tricking poor Cullen into marrying her.” 

Emblyn pushed him away, shaking her head as she offered her arm to Ellana, “Have you been drinking?’

“Not a drop. I'm simply having a little fun at Ellana's expense. But I promise I will be all good grace and deference from here on out,” Branson said with a sweeping bow, and a cheeky wink as he rose. “As per your instructions.”

Emblyn shooed him away, and guided Ellana inside. Dark wooden beams ran in parallel lines across the ceiling, the floors stained the same hue. The room was clearly furnished with ease and comfort in mind. It was full of functional items, but notably lacking in more decorative ones. An aged, carved wooden bust of Andraste stood on a nearby shelf. A more detailed plaque made of creamy marble hung prominently on the wall. 

Up a narrow staircase and around the corner, Emblyn showed her into a small bedroom. Two single beds had been pushed together against the center of the far wall. A small nightstand stood in the corner with a bowl and pitcher, and a glass jar filled with wildflowers and grasses sat in the windowsill.

Emblyn beamed with a mother’s pride, “Gavin picked these for you.”

“They're lovely,” Ellana replied. 

“Oh, there's more than a few weeds as well, but I didn't have the heart to tell him.” 

Ellana ran her fingers over the blossoms - daisies and cow parsley and blades of meadow grass, with a single bright yellow daffodil in the center. A sweet gesture in a room full of sweet gestures. Neat as a pin, walls painted bright white, blue woolen blankets tucked on the beds without a wrinkle or crease in sight. Time and care had been taken to make them feel welcome - to make _her_ feel welcome. 

Loathe as she was to rumple the blankets, weariness washed over her, and she sat down on the bed with a grateful sigh. No lumps, or broken slats, or vermin…

“I know that sound,” Emblyn said.

“I think everything’s beginning to catch up with me.” A wan smile was the best Ellana could muster. 

“Well, it’s no wonder.” Footsteps echoed up the stairwell from somewhere downstairs, and Emblyn quietly closed the door behind her. “You’ve had the world sitting on your shoulders, and now a babe sitting in your belly… But that’s why you’re here now, isn’t it?” 

Ellana nodded. Time for rest, time without a driving purpose - this was it. _Now._ It wasn’t a distant thing anymore. Another new beginning, a new life in the series of lives she’d already lived. Another unfamiliar place, with unfamiliar ways, and kind, but still unfamiliar, people. 

“Sometimes it’s hard to slow down,” Emblyn said. “But they give you little choice in the matter. It’s the calm before the storm. They come into world, all in a hurry, and then you can hardly remember what your life was before.” 

“And you wouldn’t want to,” she quickly added, sensing Ellana’s apprehension. “This is a good place for a child. And the family - they’re good people. It takes a village, and Mia alone has enough gumption and opinion for _several_ villages.” 

Outside the window, Ellana could hear the Sera had now joined in on Gavin and Dane’s antics. Barking, boyish laughter, and “Look out for the bears!” echoed into the room. Bits of a muffled conversation wafted in as well. 

“...so tired. Are you taking proper of her? I can’t believe…” 

“...is the _last_ thing Mother would have said, Mia…” 

“...hiding from the two of _you,_ most likely…” 

Emblyn rolled her eyes, and moved the jar of flowers from the sill to the top of the chest of drawers. She pulled the window shut with a little more force than necessary. 

_“There._ Now, why don’t you lie down? Supper won’t be for some time. And you _do_ look as if you could use a rest. Mia isn’t the only mother hen, you know,” she said. 

“Just for a little while…” Ellana replied, lying back on the pillows. Her body practically dissolved into the softness, and she barely heard the soft thump of the door as Emblyn left. 

_A good place to raise a child._ They would know only love and certainty and warmth here. This was a place she could shelter them from the ugliness of the world, because she wanted her child to grow up gently. A daughter who never feared, a son who never fought. Safe, stable, untouched by the past. _Home._

 


	31. Your Comfort and All

Ellana learned the hard way that the memory of expensive chocolate was not enough to win over a seven year-old boy. Cullen had gone into town, and taken Dane with him. Without a sweets or a mabari, her charms were a tough sell. 

Making daisy chains lasted all of five minutes before he was running laps around the front garden. A walk to the orchard was declared “boring.” And the mere suggestion of doing anything inside was anathema to him. He was a child-shaped bundle of boundless energy, powered by mud, sunshine, and shouting. His mother seemed to take it in stride, and Ellana admired her all the more for it. 

Selfishly, Ellana was just grateful for the distraction they provided. Rosalie had gone with Cullen, too, and that left Ellana without a buffer. Freed from the shackles of her brother’s watchful eye, Mia resumed her mission to make up for lost time. “Lost time” with Ellanawas her _entire_ life. Twenty-four years worth of memories were slowly being teased out of her. 

It was sweet that Mia wanted to get to know her better. It was a more than a little exhausting, too. 

Sera had briefly forsaken her once Mia started getting nosy, but came back into the fold once she realized that bees were less exciting when they weren’t weaponized. In Gavin, she found a kindred spirit. Sera was an adult-sized bundle of boundless energy, albeit one fueled by mud, mead, and swearing. 

The pair found a common interest - putting holes in the scarecrow they dragged out of the garden plot a week ago. Sera was a remarkably patient teacher, and Gavin an eager student. The boy was awestruck as he watched her fire off arrows effortlessly. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen him take a interest in something for more than a few hours,” Emblyn said, as she watched Sera carefully adjust her son's feet into the proper stance. “It’s all he's talked about. ‘Sera can hit the scarecrow in the chest with her eyes closed.’ ‘Sera can shoot two arrows at once.’ And ‘Sera said I was a natural.’ He was especially pleased with that one.” 

“They are very sweet together,” Ellana said, a little sadly. Her designs on the title of “favorite aunt” were thoroughly dashed.

Emblyn chuckled, and patted her on the arm, “Children are always sweet for someone else. I spent twenty minutes chasing him around this morning, just to get him to put on a shirt. He wouldn’t eat his breakfast because he said his egg looked like a giant yellow eye staring up at him. Then he ran through a hedge, _twice_ , on the walk over.

“Sera is good with him, though,” she continued. “I think he’s asked her a thousand questions, and she answers every one of them. Maker, I’m worn out after ten.” 

“Her answers are certainly… _colorful_ , _”_ Mia chimed in, through pursed lips. 

Emblyn rolled her eyes, “I’m sure he’s heard his father say more than few things just as _colorful_.”

Ellana took a sip of tea, trying to conceal her grin. Sometimes Emblyn was a little less buffer, and a little more antagonist. She preferred to stay in neutral territory. That was a hard to do if she laughed out loud. 

“Well, I can’t argue with that,” Mia agreed, and Ellana breathed a tiny sigh of relief. 

“As long as he’s not shouting out in the middle of the Chantry ‘I shot a scarecrow in the…” Mia waved her hands around her hips and lowered her voice, “ _balls.”_

“Oh, I don’t know,” Emblyn mused, “I think the Sisters looked a little uptight last week. They could probably all do with a few more balls in the Chantry…”

It was even more difficult for Ellana to remain neutral when she almost choked on her cup of tea.

Thankfully their attention was drawn as Sera and Gavin rejoined them, having both tired of torturing the scarecrow. 

“Did you see, did you see, did you _see?”_ he shouted gleefully, as he barrelled toward his mother. 

“I did, I did, I did!” Emblyn replied, catching him in her arms and tousling his hair. “I think I'll have to send you out into the woods to hunt for our supper tonight, hmm?”

“Maybe. But I don't think there are any chickens in the woods,” he said. “Are there?”

“Nah, and that's why hunting is rubbish,” Sera chimed in. “Don't tell your auntie that, though. Her face gets all scrunched up and pinchy if you do. Then she tries to feed you a rat.”

“Sera, it wasn’t a rat, it was _squirrel._ And you ate it!” Ellana said.

“Fine, she'll try to feed you a rat with a big fluffy tail,” Sera said. “And I only ate it because we were in the middle of friggin’ nowhere and I didn't want to starve.” 

Gavin flopped across his mother’s lap, squirming and singing a song about ‘fluffy rat-squirrel soup.’ Ellana wasn’t sure whether she should laugh or cry. She’d spent plenty of time around children, running, chasing, playing made up games. Even more time on the mundane tasks, like feeding and soothing and wiping runny noses. Caring for children was a communal effort in her clan. But, none of them had been _hers_. There was always someone else to hand them off to.

Seven years from now, someone would be climbing all over her like she was a tree, and making up nonsense songs. 

“Can I get a bow of my own?” Gavin asked, gazing up at Emblyn with pleading eyes. 

Someone would be climbing all over her like a tree, making up nonsense songs, _and_ they might be armed.

“Certainly,” Emblyn replied. “But you can’t have any arrows.” 

Judging by the drawn out groan, it was not the answer he was hoping for. Ellana had been on the receiving end of an arrow enough times to agree with his mother.

“No whinging, little man. Plenty of trouble you can get up to without arrows,” Sera said, poking him in the foot until he finally smiled. 

And then they were off again, Ellana along with them. An afternoon filled with the treasures of a child’s perspective. The creaky shed door that sounded like a screeching cat. The strange mushrooms that grew in the patch of shade beside the chimney. The tiny nest of speckled blue eggs in the hawthorn bush beside the barn. 

They picked every dandelion they passed. They sat and watched a hole in the ground, waiting to see if anything emerged. They gathered eggs from the chicken coop. 

Their adventure ended around the kitchen table, eating sweet buns with raisins. Sera stretched her legs out and exhaled loudly. 

“What’s wrong?” Ellana asked.

 _“Unnh…_ Don’t wanna.” 

“Just spit it out.”

“ _Fine,”_ Sera grumbled. “Want to go see some of your lot? Supposed to be a bunch camped by the river. That one needs a bow. And they’re good at making things that put holes in other things.” 

“Can I go, too?” Gavin asked. 

Out of the corner of her eye, Ellana saw Mia’s head quickly turn toward the boy. The look in her eyes said more than words could. The near-instant defensiveness, the instinct that his question proposed something dangerous.

It shouldn’t have surprised her. It was still, deep down, what Ellana expected. Caution. Hesitance. Disdain. Even fear. The same kind of looks that gave her little wounds she hid. She stuffed them down together, because no good came from stringing them all out.

It shouldn’t have surprised her, but it still hurt.

“Nah, you’ve got to stay here and watch the hole,” Sera said. “D’you want to miss it if something comes out?”

Gavin found this logic to be flawless, and went back to lining up all the raisins he’d picked out of his bun.

For her little shadow, Sera was willing to put up with a bit of “elfy-elf shite” for an afternoon. 

And for him, her new-made nephew, who tucked bits of grass and clover in her hair, who smiled and said she looked like a garden… for him, for now, Ellana would let it go. 

-

The sun was high overhead when they came to the camp the next day. It was a longer ride than she’d expected. 

Ellana couldn’t see much of the camp when they arrived. The tents and aravels were set far back behind the trees. She could hear the echoes of work and life and laughter. Fragrant smoke wafted through the air, and it tugged at her. It smelled like _home._

_Her lot_. The words twisted at her yesterday. But she twisted at them today, shaped them into something better. _Her people._ _Her pride._

She couldn’t see where the halla grazed. They were nothing like the stubborn goats at the farm, that would chew on the hem on her dress if she wasn’t watching. No, the halla were hesitant creatures. They required patience. They required a gentle touch. 

For all the made-up stories of her people’s wildness and savagery, it baffled Ellana that no one ever considered this. That her people had tamed such a wary creature, not by force, but by accepting its nature. It was a consideration few had ever shown the Dalish.

Two elves paced at the end of the footpath through the trees. Bows in hand, but daggers still in their steaths. One marked for Andruil, the other for Ghilan’ain. Hunters. Protectors. Wary of outsiders, they watched her approach with caution. 

_“Aneth’ara,”_ Ellana greeted them, climbing down from her horse. She made a show of smoothing down the fabric of her dress, patting over herself in an attempt to show she had nothing concealed. Their post was one she’d held herself, in that other life that seemed so far away now. 

Sera tied the horses to a tree. Ellana caught her gaze, flicked her eyes to the bow on her back. She nodded toward the horse, trying to be subtle.

“...What? What’re you makin’ eyes at me for?” 

Ellana sighed. This was all going to go far less smoothly, if Sera was starting in already.

“Leave your bow with the horse,” Ellana whispered.

She turned back toward the hunters. They looked at her with a mixture of amusement and irritation. 

“What’re you here for?” the one on the left shouted, Ghilan’ain’s. 

Ellana was disappointed. She hoped they would return her greeting. She couldn’t blame them that they didn’t. A flat-ear with a few pretty words, that’s what she would seem. It’s what she would have thought in their place. 

“We hear you have goods to trade,” Ellana said, approaching slowly, arching her back a bit more than usual. It couldn’t hurt. Children were precious to a clan, and those that gave them life were, as well. Even if they thought her a flat-ear, it might soften their stance a little. 

The other guard, Andruil’s, his eyes glanced over her. Up and down, resting a little longer on her middle, on her arm. She saw the grip on his bow relax. 

“What’re you looking to trade for?” Ghilan’ain said. 

“A bow - a child’s bow. And maybe more, if something catches my eye,” Ellana said. 

“Bit early for a bow, d’you think?” Andruil said, nodding toward her. His lips curled up at the corners. Kind, not mocking.

Ellana smiled and drummed her fingers. “Perhaps you’re right. But the bow is for my nephew.” 

Andruil nodded his head again, satisfied with her reply, and motioned for them to follow. Sera shifted uncomfortably behind her, but followed without saying a word. Ellana sent up a silent prayer that she’d be civil. 

They followed the hunter further through the trees, into a small clearing where a pair of large tables were placed in front of a tent. An older man, a craftsman, stood watch over them. They were still set apart from the rest of the clan. Ellana could see another guard eyeing them further down the narrow path. 

_“Aneth’ara,”_ Ellana tried again, meeting the craftsman’s eye. 

_“Aneth’ara,”_ he said, pausing for just a beat before he replied. He nodded in Sera’s direction when she mumbled a greeting.

The tables were filled out with the goods that the Dalish were known for - bows and arrows and quivers, daggers with intricately worked sheaths, furs and pelts… But Ellana spotted something else that made her eyes go wide. 

_Dil’aviseth._ She’d know the smell of it anywhere. She’d spent days of her life making it, and even more eating it. Juniper berries and currants and wild onions; salt, salt, and more salt; and most importantly, the red-orange buds they collected from prickly bushes in the fall. Venison was best, but sometimes her clan would use ram if the hunt was poor. Slicing, soaking, hanging, drying the strips. It was an insurance policy in bad years, a trade good in better ones. 

“How much?” Ellana asked, as she picked up a bundle.

“Five silvers,” the older man said. 

She noticed Andruil cock a brow, and give the older man a look. Whatever it was that passed between them, Ellana didn’t care. She pulled the coins out of her purse and paid the man gladly.

Sera looked over the bows and arrows, and Ellana stood behind and enjoyed her prize. She couldn't stop the little noise she made as she bit into a piece, somewhere between a moan and a sigh. Ellana relished the delicious sting of the spice, the slight numbness that came to her lips and tongue, the salt and the chew of the dried meat. 

Andruil was still watching her closely, eyes following her hand with each bite she took. 

_“How many pieces before the flat-ear’s in tears, hahren?”_ he said to the older man.

 _“Be quiet,”_ the older man muttered.

_“Oh, come on… Have a little fun. If she makes it past two, I’ll give you another five silver. If she doesn’t, well, then you’ll hand those five silver over to me.”_

The older man chuckled softly and shook his head, _“Alright.”_

Ellana could see Sera roll her shoulders with irritation at the quick, clipped tones of elven, as the conversation passed back and forth between the two men in front of her. She stepped forward and placed her hand lightly on Sera’s shoulder. Andruil’s eyes followed her everywhere now.

“What about this one?” she asked, pointing toward a little yew bow. Plain, but sturdy. 

“Too small,” Sera said, not taking her eyes away from the table. 

Ellana pull her hand away and moved back again. She chewed on the last of her second piece of _dil’aviseth_ , and decided to let the hunter dangle for a bit. 

Laid out beside the ram and deer hides was a beautiful, deep brown bear pelt. She was a little surprised to see it for sale - nothing, except perhaps halla, could compare to the softness and warmth of a bearskin, especially in the winter. Ellana ran her fingers through it and smiled. She could imagine it spread out beside her, tiny hands grasping at short strands of fur. 

“How much?” she asked again, and the older man hesitated. 

Ellana pulled out a third strip of the dried meat, and bit into it with the sweetest smile she could manage, purposefully ignoring Andruil’s crestfallen frown. 

“A sovereign,” he said, and Ellana knew it was too much. She knew she should haggle and shouldn’t feel slighted at being treated like an outsider. 

But she also knew there was a stack of sovereigns in her coin purse and the clan would put every bit of one to good use. 

“Alright, a sovereign… _and_ these,” she said, picking up three more bundles of _dil’aviseth_. 

The craftsman agreed, and gave her what seemed a knowing smile as he rolled up the pelt, fastening it with a thin strip of leather. 

Ellana pulled one sovereign from her purse and handed it to him. She pulled five silver coins and handed them to Andruil. 

“Pay the man,” she said, speaking around another mouthful of spicy dried meat. 

His lips opened and closed soundlessly, eyes squinted in disbelief. He handed the coins over with a grunt. 

When Sera finally settled on a bow, ash with swirling branches carved into the bend of the wood, the price they asked was far more reasonable. 

And when Andruil followed them back out through the trees to their horses, he bowed his head a little and said, _“Dar’eth shiral.”_

 _“Tas dar’eth, lethallin,”_ Ellana replied. 

She was grateful for Sera’s silence on the ride back.

-

Cullen was sitting on the little bench in the garden when they returned. Dane was stretched out at his feet. He smiled, but Ellana could see it didn’t quite reach his eyes. His fingers picked at the corner of a piece parchment folded in his hands. Ellana noticed a bandage wrapped around one, and bits of sawdust sprinkled in his hair. He had planned to spend the day helping James build a new door for the barn. 

She sat down beside him and leaned her head against his shoulder. He turned to kiss the top of her head. 

“I didn’t expect you to be back so soon,” he said. “Is everything alright?” 

“It’s fine,” she said, patting her hand on his leg. “Sera wasn’t eager to stay for long.” 

“Were you?” Cullen asked. 

“Yes and no,” she said. 

It wasn’t really an answer, but it said enough to satisfy them both.

Cullen’s thumb still worried the corner of the letter. She tapped on the parchment and asked, “Anything important?” 

“Not particularly,” he said. “Arl Teagan has taken it upon himself to bicker over every detail of the Inquisition’s departure from Caer Bronach. Apparently Orlesian threats and Antivan diplomacy have failed, so they’ve sent Rylen to deal with him.” 

“To Caer Bronach?” Ellana winced. Arl Teagan was miserable enough without a damp bunk in Crestwood to contend with. “How is Rylen bearing up?”

Cullen was quiet for a moment before he answered. “Well enough, I suppose,” he said. 

“But?” she asked, tilting her head to meet his eyes. 

“But… I worry. About what I've encouraged. We were Templars. The end of our duty was supposed come at the bottom of a bottle of lyrium. Now, though… If he asks me what do after the Inquisition ends, what am I to tell him? Go back to Starkhaven? Kirkwall? Somewhere else he hasn’t set foot for the better part of a decade?” 

Cullen lifted his hand, fingers ready to knead at his brow. But Ellana pulled them down into her lap.

“No,” she said. “You tell him to come to us, if he needs a place to go. Tell him he’s welcome for as long as he likes.”

“Come to _where,_ though? Here? Another spare room in my sister’s house?” Cullen asked.

 _“No,”_ she said again, running the tip of her finger up bridge of his nose, smoothing out the crease that formed. “I think we’ll have used up all of Mia’s hospitality on our own. And besides, we’re rather wealthy people, you know.”

She kept her finger perched, waiting for the stubborn little wrinkle to reappear. Ellana was relieved when Cullen didn’t frown, but laughed and shook his head. 

“I’m serious,” she said. “When Josie first handed me a bag of coins, I had no idea what to do with it. I was fed, clothed, armed. I had a mount and a warm bed. So I asked Varric. And it turns out that it’s a very good thing to be friends with a deshyr of the Merchant’s Guild. He invested wisely. And fairly legally, if you don’t squint too hard.”

“How many empty farmholds did we pass on the way here? We buy one. You can chop down trees and mend things and talk too much about the weather. Rylen can help, for as long as he wants to.” 

She shrugged her shoulders. Dane yawned loudly, and Ellana was inclined to agree. It had been a long day, and her husband looked just as tired as she felt. She wondered how long he’d been sitting out here. 

“And you’d agree to this?” Cullen asked, hesitantly. 

“I’m _suggesting_ it,” she said. “Let me be the one with all answers - just for today, hmm?” 

Ellana stretched her arms over her head, trying to work the stiffness out of her back. Sitting up in a hard saddle had done her no favors. Dane was still laid out on the grass. Warm, green, soft grass... She rolled off the bench, swatting away Cullen’s hands. She spread out beside the mabari and sighed with relief. Everything was sorted. She was comfortable. And if Cullen wanted to look down at her like she’d lost her mind, well, that was his prerogative. 

“And what will you do, while I’m chopping and mending and talking about the weather?” Cullen asked, as he gave in and slouched down onto the ground beside her. 

“ _I_ will keep a herd of goats, and a herd of very unruly children.” 

The goats were definitely a lie. The children were probably an exaggeration. Though between the fact that she was impulsive and he was easily swayed, maybe it wasn’t so far off. Either way, judging from the little beads of sweat forming on his brow, her statement had the desired effect.

“A _herd_ of children?” Cullen said, his voice half an octave higher than usual.

“A herd of _unruly_ children. It’s an important distinction.” 

“Exactly how many is a herd?” Cullen asked. 

“Enough to fight off the Orlesians, if they get any ideas in the _another_ forty years,” Ellana said. “That’s what I’m supposed to say, isn’t it?” 

Cullen chuckled, “Yes, it is. Rain, dogs, and cursing Orlesians. Our national pastimes. We just have to work on your scowl.” 

They heard a metallic clang following by a tame imitation of swearing come from inside the house. Mia was making supper. Ellana had offered help and been refused enough times that she gave up asking. Occasionally, she was allowed to set the table. Often, Ellana dreamed of cooking meals without a single boiled potato in sight. 

“We should go in,” Cullen said. 

“We _should_ just fall asleep right here,” she replied. 

The sun was low in the sky, blue fading to purple-red along the horizon. The evening chorus of crickets and toads was just beginning. Too lovely an evening to spend lost in little regrets. The air smelled cool and damp, and Ellana wondered if it would rain again. 

Mia opened the front door, and the spell was broken. She didn’t even bother to ask, just shook her head a bit, and said that supper was ready. 

Dane wandered off around the corner, lured by the sound and smell of creatures that came out at dusk. Cullen helped her to her feet, and shook the sawdust from his hair before they went inside. 

Mia talked at length about the neighbor’s wandering cows. James nodded politely. Sera ignored them both, and focused on piling all her peas onto one side of her bowl. Cullen’s head began to droop halfway through the meal, spoonful of chicken stew halted in front of his mouth. 

Ellana prodded him up the stairs, and he fell asleep as soon as he his head hit the pillow. She pulled the blanket over him. He murmured something that was surely meant to be sweet. 

The shutters were still open, and the crickets were building to a crescendo. She stood in front of the window a long time, listening, waiting for the rest of the house to go quiet. Cullen's breathing grew heavy. His soft snores joined the chorus. 

After she heard the last set of footsteps come up the stairs, Ellana crept down them in the darkness. She lit a candle at the worn, wooden desk tucked into the corner of the sitting room. Her heart sat in her throat as she pulled out a piece of parchment and smoothed it in front of her. The pen trembled in her hand. The words felt trapped. Three years worth of silence bound them within her. 

She decided to start with small things - a wish for the clan's health and well-being, assurances of her own. She filled the page with all the things left unsaid for too long - sadness, joy, sparks of hope. Ellana knew who she was now. No length of time could take away her memories. No shame or fear could erase her identity. 

If Deshanna crumpled it up and threw it in the fire, so be it. Ellana could live with her Keeper's silence, but she couldn't bear her own any longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Many thanks to beta extraordinaire LadyNiaClegane - all remaining errors are my own, especially my feeble attempt at creating an elven word...)


	32. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> many thanks to rythana - without her encouragement, this ending would still be languishing in google doc hell. <3

The sun had gone down. Day passed into night. The room was lit with dozens of candles and oil lamps that cast strange shadows on the faces of the people around her. Even though they uttered words of comfort, the angle of the light turned them into to something almost fearsome. Exhaustion played tricks with her mind, and Ellana thought of dragons.

The first one they fought was in the Hinterlands. She was no longer the confused by the strange path that fate had led her down, and the mark that had been foisted upon her. _She_ had closed the Breach. _She_ had faced Corypheus. _She_ was the Inquisitor. 

But when she saw the fearsome assemblage of wings and scales and fire with her own eyes, every thought in her mind said to _run_. Run fast. Run far. Don’t look back.

Corypheus and the Breach - they _had_ to be dealt with. But this creature? It wasn’t a necessity. It seemed content enough in its lair, and anyone with half a mind would leave it alone. But apparently ‘ _anyone’_ did not include the entirety of the Inquisition.

Varric, Bull, even Solas appealed to her better nature - If not them, then who? If not now, then when? They’d put it off long enough. They couldn’t leave a dragon to potentially terrorize the already terrified refugees wandering through the region.

She ignored her own sense of self-preservation. Armed with two pointy bits of metal, ankle deep in muddy water, she stood there in front of the most enormous being she had ever seen. Inquisitor Ellana Lavellan led the charge, and suddenly her accomplishments seemed very, very small and insignificant. Bull was practically salivating, but Ellana’s mouth was dry. 

The dragon roared. Her teeth and her bones shook. She was afraid. But there was no turning back. 

Every muscle in her body ached. Something so big shouldn’t be able to move so quickly, and yet it did. It didn’t tire, it didn’t slow down, not until it stopped moving altogether. Singed hair, split lip, bruised ribs, dirt-caked hair and nails and _mouth_ \- the dragon had knocked her forward and she landed face-down in the mud. But it was dead, and she was not. 

Maybe the comparison wasn’t perfect - bringing about death versus bringing forth life. But the fear and tiredness felt the same. The sweat trickling down her back felt the same. The flurry of action, the early rush of confidence. 

The midwife was a far cry from having a towering Qunari at her side. She was a plump older woman with a stern expression, and even shorter than Ellana. But whereas everyone else seemed to be running around without purpose, including the timid young woman apprenticed to her, _she_ was unflappable. Cullen had been dubious of her credentials, but he was wary of anyone who didn’t feed into his pathological fear that something could go wrong. 

When push came to shove, he deferred to her judgement. This diminutive woman ordered him to go make tea, because it was going to be a long night, and he didn’t bat an eye. He just marched into the kitchen and came back twenty minutes later with a pot strong enough to strip paint. 

“Pain with a purpose,” she said, and Ellana bit back the anger that sat on her tongue. Didn’t _all_ pain have purpose? Yes, she had chosen this purpose. Yes, in the end it would all be worth it, or so she was led to believe. But the midwife’s impenetrable calm was infuriating.

Cullen and Mia and the meek apprentice all uttered praise and comfort and encouragement. Someone pushed back the sweat-soaked strands of hair that stuck to her brow. Someone grasped her hand and Ellana squeezed it so hard she thought she’d break all their fingers. _Calluses. Cullen_. She was glad it was him. His presence was reassuring. 

But a tiny part of her also wanted to strangle him. She decided that this, _all_ of it, was his fault. Where was her sour-faced Commander? What happened to the man who freely told her how terrible her decisions were? _He_ would have convinced her that this was a bad idea at the start. _He_ would have wrung the optimism out of his current incarnation. 

Hours into the ebb and flow, her anger turned to near-despair. In those irrational moments, Ellana was overcome with longing for her mother. She fought back tears trying to remember a woman she had never known, a woman who had tried and failed. She feared her own failure. 

“Breathe,” someone said, and she did. In through her nose, out through her mouth. In through her nose, out through her mouth. “Pain with a purpose” radiated through her in waves that drew closer and closer together, until she felt like she was drowning in them.

When they broke, it felt so abrupt. A line drawn, her life divided into the ‘before’ and the ‘after.’ Everyone held their breath. Closed eyes, clasped hands, crossed fingers. A quick and quiet prayer to anyone listening.

And then a collective exhale, a _whoosh_ of audible relief. 

They placed him into her arms. _Her son_. Ronan. Red-faced and squawling, wisps of fine, dark hair, fingers clenched into tight little fists. He looked so very angry at being disturbed, pulled from quiet comfort and thrust into the bright world. He looked like her and like him, like neither and both of them. He looked _perfect._

When they lifted him away, because there was still more to be done, they placed him into his father’s hands. Awe was etched into Cullen’s every feature, like someone had handed him the crown jewels of Antiva. 

Mia guided him into a chair in the corner of the room. She fretted and fussed and slipped a pillow under his elbow. Cullen’s eyes didn’t leave his son’s face. He didn’t bother to wipe away the tears that rolled down his cheeks for a very long time. His sister perched behind him, leaning against the back of the chair with her hands tucked behind her back. 

_“Oh…”_ was all she managed to say, sighing more than speaking. Mia patted Cullen on the back absentmindedly, and he glanced up at her with a lopsided grin in response.

The din and bustle of the past hours was cleared away. The tension that had filled the room receded, leaving only quiet joy in its place.Exhaustion overwhelmed her, and all Ellana wanted to do was sleep for days and days on end. The midwife and the young woman both flocked to Cullen. They swooned over her son, and Ellana couldn’t help but grin a little with pride. 

“Can I hold him again?” she asked, and Cullen’s head popped up at the sound of her voice, pulled from his reverie. 

Ellana felt her heart race. She counted each of his fingers and each of his toes. Ten, and ten again - it seemed like the most perfect number. She memorized the shape of his nose, the bow of his lips. She watched the subtle twitch of his brow, wondering what someone so new could possibly dream about. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the deep-seated sense of contentment, just from the weight of him pressed against her chest. She kissed his forehead and inhaled deeply. She sighed at how sweet and how _real_ he was. 

He wouldn’t know her as Ellana or Herald or Inquisitor. To him, she would just be _mamae_. The only monsters she’d fight would be imaginary ones in dark corners and under beds. The only wounds she’d tend would be bruises and scrapes and scabby knees. 

“Inquisitor Lavellan” could fade into obscurity. She had never craved acknowledgement. She didn’t need to fret over scraps of admiration, not when she could relish being the most important person in the world to _one_. Ellana wanted to give her son the love and care that she herself had been given. She would new memories that would sit alongside the old ones. 

Ellana looked at her son with tears stinging her eyes. She knew that her father would have loved him _so_ much, unconditionally. That knowledge soothed her as her eyelids grew heavy and she began to drift off.

-

When she woke, Cullen was sitting by the open window, Ronan cradled in his arms. 

“Is he asleep?” Ellana said. Her fingers itched to hold him again, but seeing the them together, seeing Cullen so irrepressibly happy, was almost as gratifying.

“I think so,” Cullen replied. “He was fussing a bit earlier. I didn’t want to wake you just yet. So we took a walk in the garden and had a little chat.” 

She grinned, “Oh? And what did the two of you talk about?” 

“It would seem that our son has very strong feelings about the brightness of the sun. We found a patch of shade, but I told him he might need to get used to all the light, living in a house without a roof,” Cullen teased. 

“Really?” she balked. “He’s barely a day old, and the two of you are ganging up on me already?” 

“Certainly not,” Cullen said. As if on cue, the tightly swaddled bundle in his arms began to make little whimpering noises and hungry grunts. 

“I just thought he should be forewarned,” Cullen continued, once Ronan was settled at her breast. 

“It _will_ have a roof,” she said. “And cherry trees. And a little pond. And are _you_ really in any position to complain about a hole in a roof?” 

“You have me there,” he admitted.

To say the house had _no_ roof was a gross exaggeration. It was true, the thatch had seen better days. But, the stonework would be as good as new after repointing, and the beams were all in surprisingly solid shape. Most importantly, aside from the fruit trees and the pond, it would put a glorious five miles of distance between Cullen and his sister. 

There was a large room for three of them upstairs, and two smaller rooms down the hall - one would be Ronan’s eventually, and an extra bed for guests in the other. Downstairs there was a sitting room and a small library with bookshelves lining the wall. Last but not least was a large kitchen. Not a single turnip or beet or boiled potato would be welcome there. Ferelden cuisine had worn out its welcome. Outside she would plant a garden with all the flowers and herbs she knew. 

When Ronan was full and sated and sleepy again, she didn’t want to set him down into the cradle. Just a little longer, to make sure she didn’t forget the feel of him in her arms. 

Cullen pulled the chair beside her bed. He leaned in close, looking at her and their son by turns. 

“It’s just starting to sink in. That he’s _here_. That we’re not waiting anymore.” Cullen shook his head.

Ellana looked over her shoulder and saw the silly, smitten grin still pasted on his face. She couldn’t help but laugh a little. The two of them together, alone in a quiet room, holding their son. A fitting end to a strange beginning.

No more waiting. No more holding their breath. No more looking and longing from afar. No more hopeful glances and hesitant smiles. No more waiting, because from here on out, they could simply live their life, _together._

The thin shift she wore was still a little damp against her back. She was desperate to sink into a warm bath. Cedar-scented soap, Cullen’s fingers smoothing through her hair. Clean sheets, and the beginning of sleepless nights. Just as soon as she could bear to let go of Ronan... 

_But not yet,_ she thought. 


End file.
